


Monster

by padawanhilary



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dragon Age AU, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, F/F, M/M, Possibly Unrequited Love, Post-Dragon Age II, Pre-Dragon Age: Inquisition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-02-15 20:29:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 55,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18676870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/padawanhilary/pseuds/padawanhilary
Summary: This is the story of what would have happened had someone else become the Inquisitor. It begins with the destruction of the Chantry in Kirkwall. The story will span the end of DAII and through the timeline and some very specific events of Inquisition. THIS IS NOT A WALKTHROUGH FIC.POV is Fenris'.This chapter SFW, R for violence.Song: “This is Gospel” / Panic! At the Disco / Anders (see end notes)





	1. Well, That Finally Happened

“There can be no turning back.”

We stood in the Gallows courtyard, all of us staring at Anders’ sorrowful face. Even as Hawke opened his mouth to demand again what it was that Anders had done, a deep, terrible rumble emitted from the Chantry. The sky reddened and beams of energy erupted, and it seemed as though the hand of a malevolent god had reached out of the heavens and gripped the Chantry to squeeze it into oblivion. The world seemed to freeze for an instant, and then stone, mortar, and marble exploded from the center of the cathedral. A dust cloud blasted outward, blowing debris and hot, sulfuric air through all of Kirkwall, and then abruptly we were standing on the side of the mages. In spite of everything, in spite of _Anders_ , Hawke had chosen Orsino’s side, and then we were left with the decision: what should we do with the abomination?

Hawke hesitated, then turned to us. To me.

“You can’t possibly let him live,” I growled, stepping forward, my lyrium igniting. “Look at what he’s done - he’s betrayed us all and killed - how many people? How can we even know?”

“If I martyr him, then he can’t help make it right,” Hawke countered, and I stopped in my tracks, trying to ready an argument even as I realized there was no point. Hawke wasn’t refusing to kill Anders for the benefit of the battle to come or even so that Anders could redeem himself. He was speaking out of love. Even to the last, he cared too much, allowing himself to be distracted from the truth of what Anders was and what he had done. 

It wounded me far more deeply than I wanted to admit.

Enraged on behalf of Hawke and the people Anders had just killed, took the blade out of Hawke’s hand. Hawke stared in surprise as I put a hand on his chest to press him away from Anders.

“Fenris,” Hawke said, resisting me with a hand on my wrist. His voice was soft and tight, and I could hear the heartbroken terror there. “Don’t do this.” 

I thought very carefully about what to say next, turning the words over in my mind. 

“Someone has to.” I looked at the others, who were all dumbstruck - even Sebastian, who would gladly have turned Anders in for a pat on the head from the Grand Cleric. Perhaps I should have encouraged it. 

When I turned to look at Hawke again, his eyes were downcast. I said, “It can’t be you. And it can’t be the Templars.” 

I let that hang in the air between us. With great reluctance, he nodded, let go of my wrist, and stepped back.

I turned to glare down at Anders. He stared up at me, then Hawke, and there was no malice on his face. He just seemed… tired. 

“Look away, mage,” I breathed. I held on to the anger and outrage I’d carried on Hawke’s behalf since they’d begun; I needed it, in spite of Hawke’s pain. Perhaps because of it. “I would see no pleading in your eyes.” 

“There will be none,” Anders said softly, and he turned away from me. “It is time, and my life and death will be sung by the voices of the rebellion.”

His words further inflamed me - _how dare he?_ \- and with great satisfaction, I drove the blade hilt-deep into his back, my fury spilling over like the blood from the wound. Anyone could bed a man and call it love, but what true friend involves that love in a conspiracy to kill dozens, possibly scores? Anders’ days of using Hawke’s love and blindness for his own ends were finally over.

I withdrew the dagger and plunged it in once more, relishing the choked death rattle before Anders slumped to the side.

Withdrawing the blade a second time, I dropped it on the stones and turned to look at Hawke. Killing Anders did not assuage the anger. There was no satisfaction in having executed Hawke’s lover, especially when I looked into his eyes. He was devastated, but he met my gaze steadily. I was sure that only his iron will kept his grief from spilling over. My own turmoil of emotions must have been clear on my face because the others stared in surprise - not even Varric was willing to speak. 

My only regret was for Hawke. It had been difficult for me to view Anders as any more than a mage stringing Hawke along for his personal gain, and any less than an abomination about to simmer over and strike down those nearest to him. 

I certainly wasn’t about to say that to the first true friend I’d ever had, but what made it all the more painful was that he also happened to be the man I loved.

~ ~ ~ ~

In the aftermath of the Templar battle and then Meredith’s near-impossible defeat in the Gallows, I stared around me at the charred corpses of statues, blackened stone, and bodies. The air smelled of dirt and blood with sinister undertones. I took a deep breath in spite of it and tried to calm my racing heart.

There, at the base of the stairs, knelt Meredith, her body still emitting wisps of noxious smoke. Had the red lyrium threaded itself through her body, or was she simply encased in it? It did not matter; no one dared go near her, especially not her Templars. 

Cullen approached Hawke, who was slinging his bow over his back. I warily remained by his side and kept my greatsword drawn. 

“I thank you, Hawke,” Cullen said, to my surprise. He sheathed his longsword and extended his hand after a quick glance at me to make certain I wasn’t going to pounce. “I came to realize that her methods were extreme, but I had no idea the madness ran so deep.” 

Hawke clasped his wrist, nodding his head toward the soon-to-be cautionary tale that had been Meredith. “I don’t think anyone knew, least of all her.” 

Only then did I sheath my own weapon. The Order slowly stood down. I supposed it was a mercy that we had no apostates among us. Bethany was safe with the Wardens. Hawke had ordered Merrill to Sundermount for the time being. Anders… surely what had saved us, after all, was that we had not sided with him. 

That was cold comfort when I looked into Hawke’s stricken face.

Cullen nodded in turn to the rest of us: myself, Aveline, Varric, and when I thought of what we’d just done and whom we’d just defeated, Maker help me, I was glad it was Hawke at the forefront and not myself. I am not one for being in the center of the stage.

As the remains of the Kirkwall chapter of the Order sheathed their swords, Cullen raised his voice above the crackle of solidifying lyrium. “Templars! We are here to protect and serve, and Meredith denied us both. If you yet have reason to trust me, then the Kirkwall Order will move forward.” 

A small cheer arose, but it was little more than an exhausted huff of relief. Many among the Templar order were leery, and many more were downright disagreeable. All of them were empty. They didn’t look particularly pleased as he led them back to their barracks.

We trudged through the remnants of Kirkwall to see Varric home safely. It was a strange, lonely walk in which no one spoke. The very sky was alight with fire and smoke. Ash fell like grey snow around us. In the distance, there could be heard a cry for help or a scream of grief. Hawke would have responded on an ordinary day, or even an extraordinary one, without hesitation. 

This was neither. This had been a day borne of the blackest part of the Void, and he was spent. Absolutely spent. 

When we arrived at the Hanged Man, Hawke simply went inside with Varric without a word to the rest of us. Aveline gave me an apologetic look but remained quiet as we finished the trip to Hightown. 

~ ~ ~ ~

About a week after, we sat opposite each other in my mansion. Luno sat beside Hawke’s leg, leaning on him in affection and camaraderie. We were drinking a bottle of expensive - not to say good - brandy that Hawke had procured from a Hightown tavern. I poked at the fire with a piece of kindling and then abandoned it to be consumed. With Bethany in the Wardens and the rest of his family and Anders dead, I understood how alone Hawke felt. I dared not invoke any names; he didn’t need to be reminded of all that he had lost. I dared not even remind him that I was here for him. It was clear to me that I simply wasn’t enough.

Alongside that understanding, a deep disquiet had settled within me, despite my love for him. I wasn’t sure how, or if, I should address the idea that Garrett might have been complicit. We all knew Anders had bent the truth to suit his needs. Was that what had happened, or had Hawke known all along? 

“This disaster was on its way with or without you,” I told him anyway, watching his face, and I tried to believe it. It wasn’t meant to be shallow comfort, at any rate. Something about Kirkwall was tainted. The Veil was too thin here. It had seen too much slavery, death, abuse, and corruption, and even the people here knew it. 

But the explosion… I felt conflicted and confused.

His brow was furrowed, and he stared gloomily into the fire from his spot on the settee. He drank deeply of his liquor. I went on, “I know your sense of nobility demands you assist...” and then trailed off. Sometimes he had that sense, but it was also true that sometimes he had more of a sense of cynical justice. I had no idea how he would, or should, react in this case when I was uncertain of the depth of his role in it.

“Fenris -” he sighed, rubbing at his beard. “I supposed even if I believed it would have happened anyway, this is my home. I can’t stand the idea that I helped speed it along to its own demise.” There was a weight in his tone. His eyes were red, and I felt deep guilt that I had taken such a direct part in his grief. 

That did not make my longing any easier to bear.

I turned away to look into the fire again. His bereavement swallowed everything, even his reason. Of course, it wasn’t his Warden sister he was concerned for, nor was it Varric or even the still-sharp loss of his mother. Anders had eclipsed all of it, and Hawke… Hawke had let him.

In my broad sitting room with the fire as our only light, I could see out of the periphery of my gaze as he tilted his head to try to catch my eye. “This really isn’t about Kirkwall,” he observed softly.

“Of course it isn’t. I saw his eyes, Garrett.” I felt a thousand miles away, remembering and hurting, watching the fire because I couldn’t bear to look at his pain. “A man can’t live among the caged for as long as I did and not see the signs. Desperation makes for insane action, and then the end must justify the means.” 

There was a long pause before I caught sight of a simple shake of his head. It had been spelled out in Anders’ manifesto, nearly in so many words - how could he deny it?

“Did you help him?” I persisted in spite of myself. He needed comfort, not an interrogation, but my own pain and resentment rose to the fore. “Did you know?” I wasn’t sure I wanted the truth given where my own heart’s desires lay in the matter.

“It was Vengeance,” he said quietly. “You couldn’t possibly understand, Fenris. You didn’t see what I saw in those last days. Anders was losing himself bit by bit. There were moments when he would speak or do something and then… forget. As though he hadn’t been behind his own eyes.” 

It wasn’t an answer. I bowed my head, defeated: elbows propped on my knees, hands dangling between them, every bone fatigued. My lyrium ached in dull throbs with my heartbeat. I could think of nothing to say other than “I’m sorry.” 

What difference did it make? It was done - and there lay my own complicity. 

Hawke reached over to drag his hand down Luno’s flank. “Fenris, _I’m_ sorry.” 

I blinked and looked at him. “For what?” 

“You tried to warn me about Anders. I know you were...” He hesitated, causing my heart to catch. Did he know my feelings? Had he seen them in my face that night, or had he been aware all along? I tried to ready a quip to explain it all away, but nothing would come. 

He laughed with surprising bitterness. “You were trying to be subtle about it. I know you didn’t want to hurt me - or worse, make me angry.” His small smirk was less teasing and more self-deprecating. “I’m trying to say that as difficult as that was to hear, I should have listened more closely.” 

I stifled my relief that my secret remained safe, and I stood to put my hand on his shoulder. “Hawke, don’t.” I wanted to talk about the lies Anders - Vengeance - whoever - had spun to protect himself in the end. Of course, we never want to believe that the one we love could deceive us, and Hawke could not have foreseen that. I decided against it, though. I did not intend to cause him any more pain than I already had. 

Finally, I said, “There is nothing to apologize for.” The look in his eyes said he didn’t believe me, but his mouth held onto his smirk a moment longer before it faded. 

“I’m tired of grieving,” he admitted after a while, looking down at Luno and then rubbing his ears. Luno sighed happily.

“I know.” I wished I knew what to say to relieve his pain, but words during bereavement are meaningless.

He lowered his head and his shoulders hitched, though he remained quiet. I hurt for him: for my friend, and for the man I had wanted almost from the moment we’d met, the man I could never have.

“Do you need to be alone?” I asked quietly.

“No - please.” Hawke kept his head down, but he rested a hand next to him on the settee. I moved to sit beside him and this time, as I put my arm around him, his tears did not come silently. Luno looked at Hawke, then rested his chin on Hawke’s thigh, gazing at him sorrowfully.

I held Hawke for a long time, his body shaking, his sobbing low and ragged. He had seen too much loss; it was a wonder he’d held together this long. How long could they possibly have gone on if Anders was losing memories and control? Once again, guilt and my own selfish heartbreak washed over me, but I had to temper it to stay strong for him. Hawke needed time to give his mind and heart a rest, and I had no idea how we were going to make that time.

~ ~ ~ ~

In the days and weeks that followed, Kirkwall settled into a lurching, shaky routine just as it had after Hawke had bested the Arishok. Once the initial terror had dissipated, shops began to open again. A scant few Chantry priests remained after the explosion: those who had been off-duty, in the Circle, or in the Templar wing of the Gallows. They requested the aid of the guard in the removal of the bodies from the Templar and Circle buildings, then took a handful of days to mourn and let the shock subside as much as it would. 

The hearts and minds of the Kirkwall populace were torn. This was a people in desperate need of solace with none to be seen. Aveline delegated guards to various tasks such as organizing cleanup and requesting donations. A portion of the Keep was suggested to be set aside as a makeshift chapel. When that was decided to be too secular, someone offered a corner of the Circle tower. That, many countered, was blasphemous, and the Templar barracks was determined too militaristic. In the end, the disagreement and blame-casting ensured that there was no Chantry at all, at least until Kirkwall could heal further and rebuild.

Cleaning the Gallows and tower was a brutal task; of course, Aveline insisted that we help. The stench was eye-watering, and it wafted through most of the city. Both the gore and the sheer number of corpses were so prevalent that the priests (including those sisters and mothers who had come from Wycome) had to use large pyres to burn many bodies at once and even set some burning ships adrift across the Waking Sea. Someone suggested that they use the Bone Pit; apparently, that was where the line had been drawn.

“I hope there are no Tevinter mages here,” I muttered as Aveline, Merrill, Hawke and I made our way to the Gallows for yet another day. “For them, necromancy is a greater specialty even than blood magic.” 

Merrill made a small, offended huff. “Why, that’s just rude. Raising a body after it’s died. That can’t be right.” 

“I never said it was right,” I said, looking at her sidelong. “I only said that it was practiced.”

It was Aveline who worked the hardest to set right the untenable wrongs done to the people. Not even Cullen could match her diligence. The wealthy had simply absconded with their coin and their tastes, but most of the poor and even scantily prosperous tried to go back to their lives - after all, the Undercity hadn’t been affected too terribly by Meredith’s insanity, and the vast majority of elves simply had no choice but to stay. Lowtown, with no recourse and no protection, had simply been ravaged. 

In the aftermath, however, a few Templars (and former Templars) drifted in and out of the Undercity and the alienage to take out their frustrations on those who could not lash out against them. This wave of off-duty crimes went largely unaddressed unless directly reported to Cullen or Aveline, and in that case, the offenders were brought swiftly to heel. But it was true that the poorer districts of Kirkwall seldom saw the attention of the Guard as much as was needed, something Aveline worked to rectify but which came too late. 

Hawke tried to follow in her footsteps, attempting to repair and provide assistance to the downtrodden in the Undercity and Lowtown (the alienage had Merrill, after all, and she was proving surprisingly capable in ways even the hahren was not), but he was constantly met with either requests to become the new Viscount or demands that he leave Kirkwall. He declined every one of these - some of them repeatedly. 

As time wore on, I noticed that Hawke’s grief began to manifest in different ways. His mood became erratic. On his darker days, he would avoid us, turn visitors away from the estate, and even stay away from the Hanged Man. On his more chipper days, he would talk, to our dismay and disbelief, about some new bit of cleverness he’d discovered in Anders’ manifesto. 

The only thing that we could imagine was that those actually _were_ his darker days.

One particular day stuck in my memory. Hawke arrived at my mansion almost cheerful, and that was more than surprising. I didn’t want to question it, though. Maker, I had missed his smile. 

“Good morning, Hawke,” I greeted, bemused. “You look… happy.” 

“I suppose I am.” Hawke stepped inside when I swung the door open, following its arc. 

“Defeated a particularly nasty set of highwaymen before breakfast, I presume? Tal-Vashoth? Blood mages?” 

He even chuckled at that, and I hadn’t heard that sound since… before. “I’ve been reading,” he said simply and headed for my kitchen for tea. My puzzlement grew.

We enjoyed a cup of tea together, and he ate a few boiled eggs. I had become a passable cook, but I didn’t care to do it. Most of my eating was done with Varric and Hawke at the Hanged Man, at any rate. 

“So…” I began, a little fearful of breaking the thread of normalcy. “What are you reading?” 

“Some things about Antiva,” he said around his last bite of egg. “Did you know that their primary export is leather?” 

I looked at him sidelong as he wiped his mouth, glanced at me, and then glanced away again to focus on his tea. 

“Leather,” I repeated. “That’s what you’re smiling about?” I tried to think of a way to be clever about it, but dirty jokes would neither be appropriate nor funny at that moment. 

Hawke shrugged, staring at his teacup. “It’s a faraway place. Sometimes I think if I could tear myself away from here, I’d feel better.” 

And just like that, his smile was gone again. I cursed myself inwardly. Staring into my own cup a moment, I blurted, “Leather is useful.” I felt ridiculous and unsubtle, but I was willing to do anything in my attempt to distract him. 

“It is,” he agreed, and there was gratefulness in his eyes. “And theirs is the finest. I was wondering if it would be possible to procure some of it, but I don’t think I could justify the expense even if we could manage to have it shipped over.”

I could not think of a suitable response to that, so the silence stretched out a bit before he interjected, “I thought I’d go up to the Keep to see if Aveline needs any more assistance, although now that the bodies are cleared, she must be wondering what to do with herself.” 

I smiled faintly. For all my issues with Anders, Hawke had my loyalty and my sword; it went without saying that I’d be accompanying him.

Kirkwall continued to struggle under the surprising weight of a leaderless Viscounty, and months went by. Hawke seemed alternately better and worse by degrees, much like his city. The ups and downs of his moods remained completely unpredictable. More often than not, he looked as though he hadn’t slept, even on days when he appeared to feel a little brighter. When I went to visit him, he would often take a long time to answer the door. I began to notice hastily-stacked papers and massive tomes with blacked-out spines strewn about the estate. To my growing sorrow, he began to recede into them, spending less time out in the city. He was becoming reclusive, and I could do nothing for him. 

Hawke’s mind and heart were full of chaos, and it seemed as though the entire city-state teetered on the brink of collapse. 

That was when the Seeker came, of course.


	2. And Us Without a Hanged Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric, as any good businessman should, has ears everywhere. They are telling him of a new threat to Hawke. It looks as though Hawke and Fenris have to find new lodgings: not at the Hanged Man - and not in Kirkwall. Better just leave the Marches altogether.
> 
> The story has begun at the end of DAII and will continue through some very specific events of Inquisition. THIS IS NOT A WALKTHROUGH FIC. 
> 
> This chapter SFW, PG-13ish.
> 
> POV is Fenris'.
> 
> Song: “Closing Time” / Seismonic / Varric (see end notes)

“Hawke, Broody,” Varric greeted, gesturing to the chairs opposite his in the Hanged Man suite. Tankards had already been placed there, so we sat. 

The tavern singing was especially raucous on that evening, and after we’d had our first sips and settled in, Varric leaned closer. 

“I paid extra so Corff would keep them going,” he said, voice barely audible above the chorus. 

Hawke blinked. “What? You didn’t commission a brawl? Varric, I’m disappointed in you.” 

Varric waved his hand, shaking his head. “I needed the privacy, but I needed to talk to you.” He glanced toward the door. “Hawke, you’ve got to get out of the city, and I mean yesterday. There are people looking for you, and these are not the ones who need you to climb a tree and save their kittens.”

Hawke and I exchanged worried looks. “What people are they, then?” Hawke asked him. 

“They’re called the Seekers of Truth.” Varric made an ugly face and drank. “Sounds like a cult if you ask me. They’re an arm of the Chantry, or its fist, or something, and… I don’t know. People saw you with Blondie, and you might’ve been implicated in the explosion - and everybody knows you just happened to be there standing off against both Orsino _and_ Meredith.”

“Shit,” Hawke said. “Why now?” 

“Because the Divine wants to get the mages and templars together -”

“ _Shit_ ,” Hawke repeated, stunned. “It’s as though she hasn’t met them.” News of the rebellion had reached Kirkwall, but to us, it felt as though that cart was trailing after our horse. Our surviving mages had all absconded to other territories, but even Aveline and Cullen struggled between them to keep order among the civilians on either side of the conflict. 

Kirkwall was a completely different place than it had been in years past. Hightown and Lowtown were almost indistinguishable from one another from a social standpoint. The poverty levels had nearly equalized as the wealthy disappeared for greener pastures, leaving the more moderately impoverished encroaching on Hightown and the desperately poor from the Undercity moving up to squat - those that would, anyway - in Lowtown. Varric himself had been funneling money into rebuilding, but it wasn’t enough. The city needed taxes and, as Varric put it, a public relations campaign. With most of Kirkwall’s monied citizens gone, the need for luxury items had been drastically curtailed, and now Orlais was threatening to close off its Kirkwall trade in light of their own civil war. Even Starkhaven was willing to throw in a little, but Vael had his own problems, and his gold didn’t go as far as Aveline and Cullen had hoped.

Naturally, we needed another threat.

Varric stared at his mug, then hefted it and took a few long swallows. “And,” he said, finishing his earlier thought, “they want interviews with the people who were there - and you know that actually means ‘interrogations,’ because they _really_ want someone to blame. I don’t think anyone comes out of that smelling like a rose - not even you, Hawke. You need to get gone. I’ve got people slowing them down, but they’re closing in on your name, and you’re the most prominent resident in Hightown.” He spread his hands; the rest was self-explanatory.

Hawke drained his tankard. “Thanks, Varric,” he said, his voice heavy. His eyes looked like thunderclouds. The decline, up to this point, had been manageable. Hawke had even been able to do some good. But against authorities looking for answers…

“Wish it had been good news,” Varric muttered, and he stood when Hawke did. “So are you? Leaving, I mean?” He knew the answer was “yes” because he stuck his hand out. 

Hawke brushed it away, knelt in the dirt of the Hanged Man’s floor, and hugged Varric tightly. I swallowed hard and looked aside, my eyes prickling. 

After a moment, they released each other. Varric gripped Hawke’s upper arms, then patted them once. Hawke stood. 

I moved to Varric and copied Hawke, hugging him from my knees. “Thank you, my friend,” I said. 

“I guess I had to know you were leaving, too.” Varric sounded surprisingly hurt. 

It stung, but it also moved me. I nodded and pulled back to stand, then looked to Hawke for confirmation. Hawke nodded immediately. 

“We’ll keep each other safe,” I promised Varric, “and we’ll let you know when we get where we’re going.” 

That was another thought altogether, and Hawke asked, “Do you have any ideas on that, Varric?” 

“As far out as you can,” Varric all but ordered. “To Ferelden, at least. Maybe Antiva. I have a bad feeling about this shit, and I don’t think you want any part of it.”

~ ~ ~ ~

The fire burned with deceptive cheer by the mouth of the cave. The slightly acrid puffs of smoke drifted out, pulled into the cold night by the breeze. Luno lay beside the little pit, chest in the dirt, paws out in front of him, basking in the warmth. 

Hawke and I had taken to the foothills that the Dalish clan had vacated just before the battle for Kirkwall. It was almost as though they’d known what was coming - or perhaps they’d simply left because Merrill had done all the damage she could. The clearing felt hollow. Even the highwaymen who’d plagued the area were nowhere to be seen. It was as though the implosion of Kirkwall had drawn all of the desperation inward, whether to loot or fight, I did not know, but that desperation had clung to the city like a shroud for two years. 

We had prepared to leave with little more than survival gear and coin for when we passed through villages and cities, purchasing mounts on the way. We’d decided that we would hunt, take guard in shifts, and make our way to Ostwick or even Hercinia, but the idea of taking ship again to return to a Ferelden with no family left in it did not sit well with Hawke. 

“Let’s go somewhere else, then,” I suggested. “Varric did say Antiva, didn’t he?” I was pretty sure Varric had been joking, but it was as good a place as any.

Hawke shrugged. “Why not?” he agreed flippantly. “How about Tevinter? Surely people wouldn’t chase me there.”

I chuckled, “Not you, just me.” But then I sobered a bit. “I’m with you, Hawke.”

Hawke met my gaze. “Thank you, Fenris.” 

I could see his gratefulness. It was lonely work, trying to rebuild a city with so many who mattered to you gone. Isabela had left to take command of a ship. Merrill was still involved with the alienage elves, assisting with relief efforts and very busy with it, even after so many months. Even Aveline was absent, inasmuch as Hawke was concerned. The only one left to trail around after him was me. I felt sometimes as though I were using him because I had nothing, and no one, else. 

~ ~ ~ ~

The trek from Sundermount to Ostwick was a week-long ride on horseback, though “ride” implied something more pleasant. Luno began the trip scampering and ended it trudging, paws dragging through the dust at the side of the road. Our horses were as tired of us as we were of them. There wasn’t any particular hardship to mark the trip except for the tedium and the days' worth of saddle fatigue. 

By the time we finally arrived, it was nearing dusk and the streets had mostly cleared. It was a pretty town, its taller buildings different from the stone of Kirkwall: heavy wooden beams not only provided support but decoration in the form of large X's on every side. Windows were framed by quaint shutters, painted to contrast the mortar and granite. Rows of tall, elegant evergreens like foxtails took the place of fences between properties. It seemed a nice enough city. 

We asked a local guard where we could find the inn, and after he’d given us a brief and disdainful once-over, he pointed us toward a place called the Rumwitch’s Wanderlust. 

“I’m actually glad Varric isn’t here,” Hawke muttered as we left the guard to his post. “The name is so pretentious. If they bring their ales in from over the sea, I’m leaving.” 

There was a post with a trough out front where we could drape our horses’ leads, so we did, offering silver for the stableboy to put them up. 

We entered the place to find it dimly lit and cozy, sconces high on the walls, a fire crackling in the broad hearth. At the Hanged Man, if Corff wasn’t ignoring you, then he was almost always scowling. This barkeep was at least feigning cheerfulness. She was a thick dwarf with impossible curves, dark skin, and hair that reminded me of Bethany’s glossy black waves. Her eyes were a strikingly pale blue.

A bard plucked out a jaunty tune on his lute using a minor key, a cautionary tale against seeking out dragons or something like. The place was cleaner than the Hanged Man, and the furniture had fewer knife-nicks and more padding. If this was the meeting place of troublemakers and villains, it surely did not show. 

Of course, Hawke disliked the place on sight.

“I know it’s not the Hanged Man,” I said as we headed toward the bar. “Nowhere is. You’ll have to make your peace with that.” 

“She’d just better not make me put my dog outside,” Hawke groused, and Luno made an agreeable “rrrff.”

“What can I getcha?” she asked, setting aside her rag. She moved along the bar to her selection of mugs and goblets, walking on some sort of bench or shelf behind the bar.

“What do you have?” Hawke asked, mildly surprised. We were unused to having actual choices.

“Got ale, Starkhaven barleywine, some red from Tantervale, and brandy out of Markham.” 

“Where’s the ale from?” Hawke sounded suspicious.

She gave him a look as though he’d grown a second head. “Up th’ street.” 

“Ale, then.” 

I ordered the red. We were watched for a moment by a patron or two, but they sank back into their cups soon enough. We settled into a corner, and the chairs were amazingly comfortable after days on horseback. My legs - and other parts - were very grateful.

“I think I like this,” I said after I’d had a taste of my wine. “It’s not terrible. Better than Pavali, not quite as good as Vol Dorma.” I looked around, feeling… not entirely comfortable, but better than I had on the trip here.

Hawke grunted after a sip from his tankard. “It’s shit,” he said, but I noticed his disagreement with the flavor did not make it any less gone in the end. He was homesick, that was all. Luno licked his chops as Hawke drained the last of it, but Hawke shook his head. “You can’t have any. You’re an obnoxious drunk.” 

Luno let out a whine of sullen protest, but he settled onto his belly, groaning out his displeasure as he rested his chin on his paws.

We’d had a second round, both of us lamenting our lost city and dwarf when we were approached by a surly-looking man in a blacksmith’s apron. His massive shoulders and thick neck made an open display of his strength. He had a bald crown ringed with a peppering of fuzzy red hair, and his eyebrows, lashes, and stubble, also red, almost disappeared into the pink of his face. 

“Oi.” He tipped his chin at us. “I seen you before. Your mugs, at least.”

I was in the middle of opening my mouth to say “Hawke, don’t,” when Hawke did. He held up his tankard in a deadpan salute. “I imagine you’ve seen my mug many a time. And his goblet. Even her flagon.” He pointed to a woman a table away; she was turned toward the man next to her, ignoring us very hard. 

“Imbert,” the barkeep piped up, voice already in a warning tone, “you leave them alone. I can’t afford t’ keep givin’ away rooms ‘cause you roughed up another traveler. Remember Edith.”

“You shut up about Ediff,” Imbert snapped, then added, “besides, ain’t gonna have ta give free rooms this time.” Imbert’s words crawled slow and deliberate through the drink he’d consumed. “Them’s wanted men. Saw tha postin’ when I delivered today. We’re goin’ to tha Keep.” 

“I don’t care who they are. You take it outside where it ain’t my problem.” 

_Kaffas._ I looked at Hawke; that calculation in his eyes told me we were staying right here, his calm gaze taking in the size of the man, what he wore, his stance, and then sliding away to look for possible blunt weapons. He had his bow strapped on, but that was hardly useful in a brawl. I silently cursed and reached back to hook my fingers around the hilt of my greatsword, hoping it would be enough of a warning. 

It was not. The man’s dark, little eyes flicked from Hawke to me. “There’s a reward. It’ll put food in me larder and tunics on me sons a good while. Come on, then.” He folded his arms over his chest; he looked like a great, red-faced tree.

“Surely you have us mistaken, ser,” Hawke began, and the lug’s nostrils flared. “I mean. A fine, noble worker such as yourself - you must have been exhausted after a long day and -”

“I ain’t no ‘ser,’ ya dungheap, an’ I ain’t no noble. I work fer a livin’.”

Hawke’s charm - even his sarcasm - had worked wonders on many a day, but today was apparently not one of them.

“My friend,” I said to Hawke deliberately, in case this man could read those postings and possibly remember the names upon them. I tilted my head to catch Hawke’s eye and insisted, “I think we should… settle down, get back to our drinks.” 

“How does that solve our problem?” Hawke asked me smoothly, the grin sliding into his eyes. 

“Yeah!” the smith agreed, then looked startled that the word had fallen out of his mouth. 

A peculiar silence had settled over the tavern, one that would never have happened at the Hanged Man - certainly not at the prospect of a fight. People were swift and clever there and had little time to spare. They would have carried on with their drinking and simply changed tables, moved their cups out of the way, or joined in. That this place seemed so shell-shocked was odd and a little amusing.

“Ancestors’ balls, Imbert,” the barkeep cursed, “I’ve had enough.” She hopped down off of her shelf to secure her pricier bottles, all two of them, into a locking chest. Then she took up a broom and a cheese knife and mounted her shelf once more. She couldn’t stand against a mountain like Imbert, but she was prepared to defend herself, and viciously. I was impressed.

“Sorry, folks,” she called to the tavern at large; a patron or two made their way toward the door, another headed upstairs. “Imbert, I swear to your Maker and my Stone I will have the guard bar you from entering my place again.” 

Imbert ignored her, staring Hawke down.

Hawke stood and folded his arms across his chest. That was it; we were going to do this. I resisted the urge to rub my forehead in frustration, then stood beside him.

“You have. The wrong. Men.” Hawke’s tone was insistent, and he would have looked fierce enough to make a thug back down had he not smiled cunningly at the end. I groaned. The customers were now almost all cleared out, and I wished I were among them.

“I don’t fink I do,” the wall of smith replied, squaring his stance a little more deeply. “Black-haired man, Ferelden mutt, white-haired knife-ear -”

“For _fuck’s sake,_ Imbert!” the barkeep yelled, shocked.

“Now listen here,” Hawke said darkly, no longer playing. “Call my friend that again, and -” 

“Knife. Ear.” The smith glared at me. “I’m finkin’ I’ll drag your skinny arses -” 

Hawke punched him. It shot straight out from his midsection as though his chest had unleashed a projectile and jabbed it into the middle of that tree trunk of a gut. Imbert whoofed and staggered back, crashing into furniture, and while he was momentarily incapacitated, Hawke leaned into the empty space between them and dealt him an uppercut to the jaw. I heard a miserable crunching sound, and the smith let out a pained grunt. With it came several pieces of teeth. 

Luno looked as though he’d caught a hare, he was so thrilled. He leaped into the fray, biting at Imbert’s calf, then trying to get between his feet, then lunging up and digging his claws into a forearm. Imbert landed a solid kick to Luno’s jaw, eliciting a pained yelp, then overbalanced, staggering back. It was all I could do to keep my lyrium from priming itself, and for a moment, Hawke was alone in the fight while I decided how to handle it.

It took a second for Imbert to right himself, but then he charged, flailing his fists, and plowed into Hawke, punching him into the nearest wall. Hawke cried out in anger and surprise as he struck the wood and stone, and I had only a split second to consider my tactic. I instinctively reached for my sword - I could have felled him in a stroke but feared that a killing that gruesome in this new city would seal our fate, much like the sight of a glowing elf would. Instead, I took advantage of Imbert’s mindless fury and leaped onto his back. I wrapped my arm around his neck, gripped my own wrist in my other hand, and squeezed. He fought me a moment, reaching back to attempt to claw me off of him, but I leaned away from his grasp, eventually hauling him down to the floor on his side. We hit the floor together, and I gritted out a cry. The man was massive, and he’d landed on my leg. He paused in his writhing, slackened, then all but melted into the floor, leaving two tables and a chair broken in his wake. 

Panting, I let go of him and shoved him off of me. I tested my leg gingerly. There would be bruising - a lot of it - but I was intact. I got to my knees and rolled him onto his back to find that he was still breathing, though I couldn’t decide if that was a good thing. Luno growled, sniffing momentarily at the unconscious sack of human on the floor, then lifted his leg to urinate, panting and grinning.

“By the Stone - is he dead?” the barkeep asked, lowering her broom and tilting her head to try to see.

“No,” I replied, then grimaced as I got to my feet. 

Ever courteous, Hawke added, “Do you want him to be?” 

She considered it a moment, then shook her head. “Ain’t nobody ever bested him before. I think he’ll be too embarrassed to come back, truth be told. Word of this'll travel.” She looked between us, then scowled and spit in Imbert’s direction. “Son of a nug-humper.” She turned to me and offered a smile we both knew was full of more relief than real cheer. “I’ll get you a key.”

I left him on the floor and went to Hawke. He had bent over and was leaning against the wall with his hands on his knees. His eye was already swelling and his lip was split. I frowned when he reached back, felt his head, and checked for blood. There was none, thank the Maker.

“Are you all right?” I asked, watching his eyes. I wasn’t about to put up with dissembling if he was truly injured. 

“He’s no Arishok, but he packs a wallop.” Hawke gripped his jaw and worked it. “Nothing broken. I’ll count myself lucky this time.” 

Relieved, I nodded, then turned back to the barkeep. “Do you have elfroot?” 

“I run an inn with a tavern in it, don’t I?” She put her good bottles back in their place, then climbed up onto the bar. She produced a small sack of elfroot and another of deep mushroom from a high cabinet before climbing down again, lithe and quick. “I s’pose I’ll give it to ya discounted - five silver,” she said, sounding not nearly as bothered as she might have. “Seein’ as one o’ my regulars did this to you.” 

“There’s no need for that,” Hawke demurred, sitting down to finish his ale. “We ran off all your customers. Though it does make me wonder: why let him come back if he’s done this before?” 

The barkeep shrugged. “He spends a lot of coin here, but as I said, prob'ly not anymore.” 

“We’re sorry for that,” I said, and I meant it. “To cost you the business, I mean.” 

“Peh.” She handed me the herbs and poured another round for us. “Maybe this is a sign.” She chuckled and rolled her eyes. “Might be the Maker tellin’ me to get out of shilling drinks and rooms for whores and drunkards.” Rolling her eyes at the notion, she slid the drinks and a room key over and said, “Name’s Galvora. Hope one room’s enough; got one with a wide bed in it. Sorry about that, I just never seem to get anyone in who needs two, if ya know what I mean.” 

“It’ll be fine,” Hawke said. “Thank you, Galvora.”

She waved her hand at him. “Least I can do for you knockin’ the lout over, though I might have to make you give a gold or two for the dog piss on the floor.” 

Hawke chuckled, dug into his pouch, and laid coins on the bar. “That is the least _I_ can do.” 

“Right.” Galvora rubbed her hand over her eyes and shook her curls. “There’s stew left from supper; two gold. Three if ya want meat besides. Sorry - the inn is all mine, but I haveta pay for food. I’ve fresh water for bathin’ if you’re willin’ ta haul it.”

The idea of a bath sounded almost decadent after the dusty road and the exertion of the fight. We both nodded eagerly; Luno put his paw over his muzzle.

“When you’re up and about in the mornin’, do me a kindness and tell the girl that Galvora said Imbert finally bit more than he could chew. Say it just like that. We’ve a wager goin’, and she won.”

That drew a smirk out of both of us.


	3. Then Things Went South

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the fight in the tavern, Hawke and Fenris make... discoveries. Well, Fenris makes a discovery. Hawke just straight up asks. Even as they prepare to leave, a rushed missive forces them to make alternate plans. 
> 
> The story began at the end of DAII and will continue through some very specific events of Inquisition. THIS IS NOT A WALKTHROUGH FIC.
> 
> This chapter SFW, PG-13ish.
> 
> POV is Fenris'.
> 
> Song: “Misguided Ghosts” / Paramour / Fenris

“Stop flinching.” I gave a third attempt at applying the herb-soaked cloth to the cut under his eye, and Hawke jerked.

“Stop touching me, then,” he fired back, but he was hurting; I could see it. Hauling water up had been a chore, and heating it to tolerable had been another one, but once we’d finished that, we had to attend to his wounds before we bathed. At least Galvora had let us haul a second tub up.

“I’m fine. The cut’s fine. I want to get in before the water gets cold, Fenris.”

“You’re such a child when you’re injured,” I sighed. I opened my mouth to add something about how it couldn’t always be fixed by a healing mage, but that was Anders territory. I wasn’t crossing into it. 

“What?” he asked when I didn’t speak further.

“Never mind. Just be still so I can clean this cut. That Imbert’s hands were filthy.” I soaked the cloth again and gently pressed it to his lip; he managed to stay still.

“I may be a child, but you’re a mother hen.” 

At that, I smiled. “Fine. I’m a mother hen. And now you’re calling names. Child.” 

“Hah.” Hawke winced again but didn’t pull away this time. 

“A little better?” I asked after I had managed to get the grime out of the way.

Hawke nodded. “I could’ve done it myself, you know.” 

“Of course you could have.” I set the used cloth aside and picked up another to dip into the water. “But you wouldn’t have. Then what happens when we’re halfway to Antiva and the wound turns bad?” I started tending to his lip; it wasn’t as bad as the cut under his eye.

He went quiet for a little while, so I just worked. The blood was dried and difficult, but we had some salve to put on it after. I was so focused on cleaning the split without hurting him that it took me a while to realize he was watching me. 

“What?” I asked warily. I couldn’t read his expression at all.

“Why do you put up with me?”

I blinked. “Why do I - what are you talking about?” 

“You heard me. Ever since we met, I’ve done nothing but drag you from one fight to the next.” 

I scoffed, turning my attention back to his wound. The question was a prelude to a jab of some kind, obviously. “Only after I dragged you through taking down half of Tevinter in the search for Danarius; fair’s fair.” 

“I’m serious, Fenris.” 

When I looked at him again, I could see that he was. My heart beat faster, and I deeply wished to be able to read what was in his eyes. I could feel myself flushing, and I decided that I had had enough of tending to the cut on his lip. I pressed the cloth into his hand and turned to put the dry herbs away. “I’m your friend, Hawke,” I said quickly. “Friends help one another. They stick together.” 

“Everyone else went off to make their own way. Why not you?” 

It was a question I’d asked myself a thousand times. _Because I have nothing but you_ came to mind. _Because I don’t know what to do, where to go, how to find purpose. Because you_ are _my purpose._ Of course, I could say none of those things, and the silence stretched into an eternity. 

“Fenris.” 

My heart hammered in my chest; I knew it would make a tremor in my throat if I spoke. I forced myself to look at him, then wished I hadn’t when he said:

“Fenris, are you in love with me?” 

The bottom fell out of my stomach. My face was scalding. My heart felt as though it would explode. I swallowed hard and now I could not look away, could not find a single word, and still, I could not see past the calm brown of his eyes. Was he teasing? Did he feel the same? What would I do if he hated the very idea and decided to split our paths right now?

His expression cleared, but understanding was not reciprocation. “I see,” he said quietly. 

I wanted to ask him what he was thinking, but I couldn’t bring myself to. My throat wouldn’t work, anyway; I was sure of it. I could hear everything around us, it seemed: the soft creak of a door opening and closing, a scratching scurry of mice in the wall, someone pumping water outside. I wished to be anywhere and anyone but where and who I was.

“Well, that explains a lot,” Hawke said after a moment, finally looking away. His tone tried to be teasing, but it was soft, almost tender. There was something in it that I had never heard. Perhaps something that had always been reserved for someone else? I shoved the thought down ruthlessly. 

“Can I ask how long?” 

His searching gaze met mine, and all I could think to do was close my eyes. I was terrified now that if I did manage to speak, I’d babble out all of my pent-up feelings: the frustration of seeing Hawke not just with a mage, but with _Anders_. The ache in my heart as I slept alone while Hawke and Anders shared his estate - and his bed. The teasing chatter on mornings after, all the hot, jealous misery I had endured for the sake of friendship. All the while, my love had burned unrequited, unnoticed, with the endless source of fuel being the warmth in his eyes, a casual touch, a quirk of sarcasm. All eight years’ worth of it.

“Since the beginning,” I managed and pressed my lips together hard to hold in the rest. It was enough. He knew. I wondered if it made him happy.

Everything in my soul wanted it to make him happy.

“Maker,” he breathed, and I looked at him, startled. “How did you - all this time?”

I nodded. He seemed confused, stunned, as though all the air had been taken out of him. 

“I’m -” he hesitated, then said, “I’m sorry, Fenris.” 

Now my heart joined my stomach, and my throat tightened. “There’s -” I cleared my throat. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. It can’t be helped.” 

“No,” Hawke said, and he shifted closer to me. “I mean…” 

When I turned my head, he was reaching for me, and then his hand was sliding around my nape. My heart leaped, and when his lips brushed mine, fire exploded in my stomach. I could feel the prickling tingle of my lyrium beginning to shine, and I could not imagine any greater joy. All of the desolate nights I’d dreamed of this were brushed aside, and my love sang through my blood, eager to be answered at last. His kisses were soft, questioning sweeps, delicate and easy. I tasted ale and elfroot. He slipped his fingers up into my hair, longer than when we’d met, longer than it had ever been in my life, and I felt a shiver move over my skin. When his tongue sought mine, I groaned. I wrapped one arm around his neck, the other around his waist Hawke tugged at me, so I climbed over, straddling his lap. 

The instant my weight settled, he tensed. “I’m sorry,” he whispered quickly, turning his face away from mine. “It’s too soon -”

I scrambled away from him before I knew what I was doing and strode to the opposite side of the room. The rapture and hunger had crumbled into a shame so deep that it hurt. “It’s -” I began, but it wasn’t fine. It wasn’t all right. He was still grieving and confused, and I was still selfish. Now was not the time. _Fasta vass_.

I stood, and he sat, in tense silence for what seemed forever, both of us staring awkwardly at the floor, a corner, anything but each other. Finally, he said again, “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t,” I pleaded. I put my hand on my chest without meaning to; it felt as though my heart was plummeting again. I wanted to go down with it, to simply disappear.

He finally stood. “I need time.” He moved to one of the tubs and began to undress, and I noticed that he carefully kept himself turned away. “Can I ask that of you? After everything?” He turned to look at me over his shoulder. My one saving grace was that humiliation was an instant cure for arousal.

I had so many questions that they were tripping over each other in my mind. _How much time do you need? Why now? Did you love me before and Anders just caught you first? How can I force myself to wait for you any longer after having kissed you?_

My answer, however, was obvious - and not just to me. “Yes,” I said, and there came a new stab of pain with the sense of resignation. “You know you can.” I wanted to tell him he could ask anything - and part of me thought that he should have known that by now. What else did I have to do besides wait for Hawke? What else had I ever?

~ ~ ~ ~

Ostwick’s situation was rapidly approaching that of Kirkwall, as far as the mage supporters and Templars were concerned. Its wealthy had stayed purely out of stubborn pride, comparing themselves more favorably to the formerly elite of Kirkwall. In Kirkwall’s defense, Ostwick had never borne a Qunari occupation and siege, the public murder of its Viscount, or the devastation of its Chantry and Templar Order, but Ostwick clung tenaciously to its pride in the lack of these events. Everyone looked down their collective noses at Kirkwall as though it were the Meredith of the Free Marches: insane, tainted, and entirely preventable. 

Of course, their response had been to clamp down on the mages. Even I could see where that was headed - even without a Meredith or an Anders - though I had no other answer ready to hand. Apparently, Imbert had been shamed enough to keep his mouth closed. Just because we went unrecognized by name, however, did not mean we were accepted with open arms. Our arrival was met with skepticism and naked resentment: the city-state’s climate was already a powderkeg without Kirkwallers showing up and seeking refuge. The ornate spires of the mage tower rose tall and imposing over Ostwick like the fabled Black City of the Fade, a constant reminder of everything that had gone wrong.

No mage ever left it, and only Templars were allowed near it. 

We’d been in Ostwick just over a week and had retained our small room in the inn. We slept beside one another in the bed, which Galvora had described as “wide.” It could have been as wide as the room and still not been big enough. Those were sleepless nights - for me, at least. I could not say whether Hawke found any rest within them.

In the day-to-day, Hawke could find work on the docks if he needed to, though money was less of a problem than mingling among the populace. As for me, no one was interested in hiring an elf. The only way _I_ was going to blend in was in the alienage. Even there, my markings would have set me apart. In spite of that, no one but the drunken blacksmith seemed to recognize us. 

The plan was to wait until a ship could take us to Antiva. We had the coin, but with trade hobbled by the rising infighting among the Chantry factions, ships taking passengers out of the area were sparse.

Much of Hawke’s usual humor had left him again - even the kind he’d used to deflect seriousness and protect himself. It hurt more than I could say, but what could I do for him? He had lost absolutely everything, and the strained silence sat thick between us day after day. The understanding of what we could be to each other both thrilled and terrified me, but he would never speak of it. Regardless of which I was feeling at any given time, I ached for it. I clung to that kiss, reminding myself of it when Hawke’s quiet deepened and he would not meet my gaze. Often, I wondered if I was fooling myself.

Still, I remained by his side when I could, hooding my ears and wearing a rogue’s mask over my face to hide my lyrium. I had promised Varric that we’d keep each other safe, and I intended to keep my side of that promise. 

With tensions escalating I found myself guiltily relieved for the occasional bursts of fighting in the streets as mage apologists, guards, and Templars clashed. It allowed my greatsword, strapped perpetually to my back, to make sense. In Kirkwall, it had been a matter of course. Here, the fits of violence were still regarded as highly unusual in the middle of the city-state and absolutely unheard-of in the upper.

After finally securing bunks on a passenger ship bound for the Antivan coast one morning, we were purchasing some provisions. We’d secured some smoked rabbit and druffalo and were preparing to haggle with the owner of a cart selling dried fruit and nuts in the bustling market square when a gangly woman stumbled into Hawke. 

“Apologies, messere,” she mumbled, bracing herself against him and then clinging a moment as though to steady him. She wobbled with some old infirmity, so Hawke clasped her arms, ready to offer assistance.

“No harm,” he assured her, but as soon as she backed up, he reflexively checked his pockets. Her expression, bland as it was, did not change as he found his small sack of coin still on his person. She was no thief, and so was not offended.

The better part of the day passed before Hawke discovered a small scrap of leather tucked into a pocket of his breeches. 

He read it quickly, then read it again. “We have to go back,” he said at once. There was a sudden urgency in his demeanor.

I protested, “We just paid for passage -”

“ _Now._ ”

I frowned, tilting my head. “After what we had to do to get the dog cleared to board - ”

Luno let out a miffed grunt; he had a name, after all. I patted him absently.

“Fenris.” Hawke reached for my arm, then stopped himself. His eyes locked with mine. “Do you still trust me?”

Startled, I nodded immediately. “Of course I do. That was never in question -” 

“Then we have to go back. Someone is already waiting for us at the docks.”

“Here?” I asked, looking around.

“Yes.” He pushed the slip of leather into my hand. It read, in an odd and halting combination of printed text and calligraphy:

> “Remember _h_ **o** w I told you that you **s** ome **t** imes _left_ your _hand_ t **w** o easy to _see_? Your _book_ ie **i** s in **c** lined to **k** ill you dea **d**. Y **o** u better che **ck** your card **s**.
> 
> P.S. Hope the broody isn’t catching.”

The code was crude enough to not really warrant the term, obviously constructed in a hurry. “ostwick docks” was highlighted in the bold letters, and “left hand see book” in the calligraphy. 

“Remember Sister Nightingale?” Hawke asked, the words heavy.

Oh yes, I remembered. She’d been the one with the authority to recommend an Exalted March. My eyes widened.

“Exactly.”

Our contact at the docks played a very convincing fishmonger. She elaborated about what a shame it all was, the doings in Kirkwall, and how supply lines had been severely damaged, but she really did have deliveries to make just the same. The fish needed to get to Wildervale, just to the north of the coast. Promising coin too handsome for a simple tradeswoman’s task, she saddled us with a large package of salted cod and informed us of a merchant caravan that happened to be heading that way - within the hour, in fact. She went so far as to offer us warm clothes for the journey and remarked on how unusual-looking an elf I was. It was a warning: _cover up, you fools._

I didn’t like it a bit. The idea behind coming to Ostwick had been to lay low until we could get somewhere safer - and we’d almost made it. What could possibly be happening that would cause Varric to call us back? That we were still too close to Kirkwall was evident in the unrest and ongoing skirmishes. The rebellion was catching, and fast, and Wildervale was closer to Kirkwall than Ostwick, just north of it about two days’ ride. Still, Hawke would not ignore a summons from Varric, especially not one concerning the Left Hand. Off we went, then, just two humble tradesmen plying our wares. I disguised myself with a deeply hooded cloak and a lot of dirt, and Hawke wore a fisherman’s cap and an oilcloth coat with a deep collar. Even Luno spent time in the dirt rubbing off his kaddis before we boarded the caravan.

~ ~ ~ ~

We were keenly aware of time slipping past as we trundled along the trade road very nearly in the direction from which we’d come. We rode on the second of three wagons, and the coachman had advised us that we were to keep down and out of sight as much as possible - which meant there _were_ people looking for Hawke after all, and not just the Seekers.

The ride seemed interminable. Hawke remained uncharacteristically quiet, and would occasionally thumb back through his ragged and dog-eared copy of that damned manifesto. Our exchanges were mostly limited to mealtimes and bedding arrangements in the bouncing, swaying cart. What talk we did share could be best described as small, indeed.

There was no true sleep to be had on the moving wagon’s back end, but when Hawke did drift off, his rest seemed to be fitful and fraught with bad memories. At one point, he jerked awake to see me watching him. 

“You have nightmares,” I observed quietly. 

“Yes.” 

I paused before asking, “Am I in them?” I knew the answer, didn’t want to hear it, but perhaps I needed to.

He pushed himself to a sitting position and nodded, not meeting my eyes. 

I closed my eyes against the pain of it, a dull ache buried in years-old grief. I wanted to rest my hand over his, but I could not bring myself to. If he rebuffed me again… No. I could not even allow myself to think of it. 

Turning to look at the road behind us, I murmured, “I’m sorry for that.” 

Hawke shook his head. “I know what he was, even though I didn’t believe it then. I didn’t want to believe it. Even so, it would not have lasted forever.” 

I felt an old ember of outrage spark inside me. If only Anders had been telling the truth when he’d claimed to be seeking a way to separate himself from Vengeance. If only he’d been honest about that and could have made Hawke happy with the real love that he deserved.

If only I had found a way to make myself approach Hawke in the early months. 

Little did I realize that “if only” was about to become a more common turn of phrase than I liked.


	4. The Subtlety of Fists

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris and Hawke, awkward though it is, have to go all the way back to Wildervale after receiving a note from Varric. What could possibly be so important? 
> 
> Luno is not freakin' happy about it.
> 
> POV is Fenris'.
> 
> This chapter SFW, PG-13ish.
> 
> Song: “Champion” / Fall Out Boy / Hawke (see end notes)

It was an agonizing two and a half days by cart to Wildervale, and all along the route were crows, oddly enough. They were consistent; not enough for a rookery, but too many for this time of year. Or was it the same handful of crows? I couldn’t tell.

The ride was jarring and bumpy, and for the most part, the weather was clear and cold. That was a comfort, given that we were buried deep in disguises. To add to all of that, there was still the silent pall of tension hanging over us. Hawke would not broach the subject, and neither could I bring myself to. He’d asked for time, after all, and though I wanted to give it, I had to wonder - not for the first time or the last - how much he required.

So we sat in the trundling wagon, waiting to arrive while the awkwardness between us grew.

At long last: “Wildervale, market square,” the coachman announced. “Chantry’s just that way.” He pointed past a row of stalls. After giving us a moment to haul ourselves out of the cart and grab our meager belongings, he left without another word.

Hawke said that Wildervale was larger than Lothering, but not by much. It had the same feel to it, too: just going about its business, chantry at its center. There were fruit and nut vendors, an alchemist, Chantry priests scattered about. I looked at Hawke, and suddenly I could see homesickness all over him. I gripped his arm in solidarity, and he gave me a grateful look.

I hefted the sack of salted fish onto my shoulder, and when I turned toward him, Hawke was giving Luno a scratch on the head. In spite of everything, it made me smile a little. 

We headed for the fish stall, a small, meticulous thing lined with wooden crates. The stall stocked a few different varieties of preserved items from the area lakes, but fish from the coast when there was an abundance here seemed extravagant. The man there was reedy, old, and pleasant of voice. He had a good smile, which was part of the problem. You couldn’t spend as much time on the docks as we had and not notice that fishmongers have a particular look about them. They’re like the fishermen themselves, usually short in stature, brown of skin They are hard-working people, and most did not have the time to spend on pleasantries. This man had the carriage of a noble and the grin of a man with coin to spare.

“Ah, my delivery at last!” he exclaimed when he saw the mark on the side of the bag. Once I’d made the other observations about him - and I was sure Hawke had, too - his accent came across as obviously cultivated. I wondered from where he actually hailed, but it did not matter; he was no more an actual fishmonger than the last one had been. He immediately opened the sack and poured some of its contents into a waiting box for sale, then bundled the rest away behind the display. 

The coin he produced was well beyond what a simple delivery was worth. Hawke opened his mouth to decline at least some of it, but he waved any protest away. “Ostwick’s too long a trip for me to make, Son, and who can’t use a little extra coin? You’ll probably be needing it.” 

Hawke glanced at me sidelong, then shrugged. “We probably will be needing it,” he agreed. It was all an elaborate set-up, but to what end?

“Thank you,” Hawke added as he tucked the generous gold into his pouch. 

“You’ll want to visit the Chantry next, I suppose,” the “tradesman” offered, and this time Hawke quirked a puzzled eyebrow, which went ignored. “It’s just that way.” The pretend fishmonger pointed. We were meant to take a hint: the Chantry was our next destination, and no one was taking “no” for an answer. 

The doors creaked open and then swung solidly shut behind us as we pressed our way in. It was colder inside than out, though as we approached the dais, the air did become a bit more pleasant. There was a small hearth in the corner of the main hall, a few initiates gathered about the fire. Dozens of candles burned at the feet of the traditional representation of Andraste rendered in stone.

We were greeted by a cheerful sister, beaming and opening her arms. “Andraste’s blessings be upon you, travelers. Please.” She gestured toward a closed door.

Here it was. It couldn’t possibly be Chantry practice to welcome every newcomer into the inner sanctum. When we stepped through the doorway, there they were: Varric, Sister Nightingale, and a woman I had not seen before, with short, dark hair and a piercing gaze. Beside them stood Bethany.

“Maker!” Hawke exclaimed, dropping his sack, ignoring the others, and running to his sister. He hugged her so tightly that she grunted even as she hugged back, resting her head on his shoulder. 

“I never thought I’d see you again,” she confessed, pent-up tension in her voice. “When I got word that things were so bad in Kirkwall…” She trailed off. 

“I know,” he breathed, then stepped back, gripping her arms and taking in the look of her as she blinked away tears. She appeared strong and sharp in her Warden robes. In spite of the toll the Joining must have taken on her, she looked… solid. 

“We couldn’t stay in Kirkwall,” Hawke explained as I stepped in to offer my own greetings. Bethany threw her arms around me, as well. I stiffened involuntarily, then returned the hug. 

“I knew you’d take care of him,” Bethany smiled, her eyes shining as she pulled back to look at me. 

I smiled back, but it was forced - and she knew it. She tilted her head at me, but her expression did not change. She glanced at Hawke to find him fidgeting with the straps on his pack. She knew _something_ had happened. 

Now was not the time. We turned to address the rest. Leliana, Varric, and the other woman were watching patiently. Varric stepped forward to clasp Hawke’s wrist, then mine.

“Thanks for coming,” he grinned falsely. “Next time we’ll come up with something more glamorous than fish.”

“How could I decline such a clear and threatening invitation?” Hawke quipped right back, his barriers and his dry humor firmly in place again. “Your code’s getting rusty, by the way. Anyone could’ve deciphered it.” 

The dwarf shrugged. “I was in a hurry and being held at knifepoint.” 

The dark-haired woman tsked irritably. “You were not.” 

“Seeker, your mere presence here is pretty much the equivalent.” Varric turned back to us. “Shit’s gotten serious.” 

“Just now?” Hawke asked, eyebrows raised. “I’m so glad we had a light and breezy time leading up to it, then. And here I am, not knowing which explanation I need first. Oh, wait,” and his mutter went completely arid. He gestured at Bethany with a flourish: "Let’s talk about you kidnapping my sister out of the Wardens.”

And there was his humor again, as though Varric had lit a lamp. I shouldn’t have been surprised.

“I wasn’t kidnapped,” Bethany said quickly. “They told me that they needed to find you, and the best way to ensure that you assisted with the… effort, I suppose, was to make a good faith gesture. Besides, I wanted to help.” 

Hawke narrowed his eyes at Leliana. “Using my sister as a bargaining chip is very… Left-Handed of you.” 

Bethany sighed, tilting her head. “It wasn’t like that, Garrett.” She waved her hand at him and then hugged my arm.

Leliana gestured to a large table, then went to bolt the door. As we sat, the other woman began to explain: “My name is Cassandra Pentaghast. We brought you here because Divine Justinia is calling for a conclave of the mage and Templar leadership.”

“So I’ve heard,” Hawke deadpanned. I knew that look as well as the tone: he was gathering information, assessing, and building a plan. He looked at Varric, and Varric looked back levelly - it was a clear exchange of information I was not yet privy to.

“Turns out I didn’t have a full hand to play with,” the dwarf said. “Leliana’s a better spy than me; who knew?”

Cassandra made a noise that sounded a bit like disgruntled throat-clearing. “The Divine wants to resolve this conflict peacefully, and we believe she can do it. There will be a heavy contingent of guards. We need you among them.”

Hawke laughed shortly. “That’ll be interesting, given that we’re not Templars. I’m not even religious. I think our distinctive-looking Fenris may actually have me beat there.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Leliana chimed in. “You only need to look the part.”

Hawke tilted his head. “To what end? Is this a way to get me under lock and key, since your Templars _and_ the city guard are now waging open war in the streets of the Free Marches?” 

“Quite the opposite,” Cassandra said. “This will get you safely away from the conflict and into the heart of the solution to this grand disaster.”

“And my job in all of this, other than as stuffing for Templar armor?” 

Leliana answered. “When the time is right? To talk. It is one of the things you do best, is it not?”

Hawke and I both looked at Varric, who had clearly done some talking of his own. 

“What?” Varric asked, his feigned innocence too thick to be even a bit convincing. “They assured me they weren’t out to hurt you, and wait’ll you hear the whole story. This is a mess. This is _my_ mess, what with the red lyrium playing its shitty role in all of it, and - well, damn it, I need to do something here. Kirkwall’s about to fall into the Waking Sea. I need you, Hawke.” 

Hawke might have followed that with some sort of mock flirtation, but he could see how shaken Varric was. 

“I’m here, Varric,” he promised. “We’ll handle it.”

He didn’t look at me, but I nodded in agreement anyway.

~ ~ ~ ~ 

The Templar armor was surprisingly comfortable, with the exception of the boots. I felt oddly at home in the trappings, the plate lined with leather and a little padding made of cotton and linen. They’d gifted me with a massive sword as well, while Hawke stood stiff and chafing in his own scout kit with a standard issue crossbow. Once he put the helmet on, he immediately looked like he had a headache.

“You must be careful in your conversation with the others,” Leliana said as she prepared us to march, “and give no personal details. No history - do not try to fabricate anything more than what I’ve given you. It is too much to remember, and you will slip. Do not draw attention to yourselves.” She made a beckoning gesture with one gloved hand; Cassandra produced a little jar of what looked like salve. She took a glove off and began to apply the stuff, which was opaque and vaguely matched my skin, to the lyrium on my chin and throat. I gritted my teeth to keep from wincing at the abrasive quality of her fingers on the tattoos.

“Tell me your names,” she ordered.

“Bernard Hutchinson,” Hawke replied, “recently transferred from the Fereld - ”

“Yes, yes.” She looked at me and worked the salve lower over my throat.

“Randel Grange. But shouldn’t I - ” 

“This is no time to improvise,” Leliana said crisply. She tightened a side strap on my chest plate and then gave me a last, cursory inspection. Cassandra was pacing around Hawke.

“I have a question,” Hawke said, “and I’m not going anywhere until I get an answer: who is in charge of this operation?” 

Cassandra offered, “I am, after a fashion, the remaining leader of a group that used to belong to the Seekers of Truth. The Templars and Circles answered to us.” She sighed in a way that was almost wistful. 

“She is also the Right Hand of the Divine,” Leliana added, stepping back to look me over once more before tucking the pot of salve into my hand. “I am the Left. Neither of us is ‘in charge…’ But both of us are. It is complicated - and irrelevant. As Varric said, we need you.”

“Well, that answered nothing,” Hawke muttered, but tried again: “Do I get to ask why you’re subverting the authority of the Divine?” 

Cassandra looked at Leliana, then assessed Hawke a moment, as though deciding if he were worthy of the answer. “We wish to support the Divine, not subvert her. We have her leave - indirectly - to do that as we see fit. We need eyes and ears, and when the time is right, a voice. That is all.”

“This is all awfully heavy for ‘eyes, ears, and a voice.’” Hawke said, shifting uncomfortably. “And who is going to believe a couple of random Templars?”

“The Divine knows who you are,” said Leliana. “Your testimony will carry weight enough. Varric.” She glanced over her shoulder at him, holding out her hand. ”Give me the letter.” 

Varric handed her a tiny parchment scroll and looked at Hawke, sorrow all over his face. Whatever was about to happen, he was deeply apologetic for it, and that was _not_ a good sign.

Leliana turned to the window, where a crow stood patiently. Well, that explained the birds over the caravan. “You will seek out Ser Geoffrey Tyler and report to no one but him. Hawke, you and Fenris truly know what happened, and you alone may share the truth when the time is right.”

Hawke scoffed. “What about Aveline? Sebastian? You mean to tell me that the Chantry Choir Prince of Starkhaven isn’t stepping forward to rat out the apostate?” Bitterness laced his words.

“If we go to Aveline…” Cassandra sighed. “No. She does more good where she is. She has work to do, and pulling her into this might cause people to believe that she was complicit. She cannot be compromised as a leader of the guard. Kirkwall is already too vulnerable.

“Besides, Sebastian has already given us his side. He is very wrathful at the loss of Elthina, and it is possible that his story to the Divine would become even more prejudiced than it already is.”

Here, Leliana interjected, “You must be the one, Hawke. You saw what led to it. You know that it was an apostate mage, and not the Circle, who destroyed the Chantry. It was a single Templar, and not the Order, who misused that strange lyrium and overstepped her bounds with cruelty and the desire for power. Both sides must be presented.” As she spoke, she fixed the scroll to the crow’s leg.

The mention of lyrium brought an ugly mask to Varric’s face; he let out a soft, disgusted growl.

A gnawing sense of doubt had been growing in my gut, and now it churned insistently. As if in response to my misgivings, Hawke slapped on a grin. “Well, if it’s really just about telling the story, I’ll gladly give an interview -”

The Left Hand whirled about and cut him off with a look made of daggers. I could see why she’d been chosen to do whatever it was that she did. “We do not have time for your clever tongue, Hawke. Not until the moment comes. Ser Tyler will signal you.” 

Her expression became more intense than before if that were even possible. “Do not,” she warned, gaze locked with Hawke’s, “reveal yourself until then.” 

Hawke glanced at me, then nodded. “Understood.” 

Bethany, who had been watching quietly the whole time, finally spoke. “You’d better come back to me, Brother,” she murmured. “I don’t like this a bit, and I don’t see how it’s supposed to help at all, but you’d just… better come back to me.”

Hawke went to her and hugged her. “I will. And you? No rebelling with the naughty mages. I’ve heard the fighting’s getting ugly.” 

“We will keep her safe,” Leliana promised. “Cassandra swore to protect her even as she searched for you, and she intends to continue to honor that oath.” 

“That’s very reassuring,” he muttered sarcastically. 

Leliana shook her head. “Cassandra is not unkind,” she said. “Just very, very intense.”

“You don’t say,” Varric fired back.

“I’m standing right here,” Cassandra grunted.

I looked down at Luno, who was watching Hawke intently. His eyes were sad, and he was making low, sad whines in his throat. 

“I’ve got him, Hawke,” Varric murmured. He rested a hand on Luno’s head. 

“Thank you,” Hawke sighed. I knew he hated leaving the dog behind almost as much as he hated leaving Bethany, but they weren’t inserting us into a mabari unit. Hawke crouched down to cup the mabari’s broad head in his hands. “Don’t worry, boy. I’ll be back soon.”

Luno huffed and laid on the floor, muzzle on his paws. His gazed tilted up to Hawke’s, then mine, and even I could see that he didn’t believe it. Not one bit.


	5. Nothing Good About the Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After returning to Wildervale and meeting with Cassandra and Leliana, Hawke and Fenris are dispatched as "Templars" (read those huge air quotes) to the Temple of Sacred Ashes.
> 
> To say shit goes down would be an understatement. I believe you all know the drill. Sort of.
> 
> The story will address some very specific events of Inquisition. THIS IS NOT A WALKTHROUGH FIC.
> 
> POV is Fenris'.
> 
> This chapter SFW, R-ish for Temple of Sacred Ashes stuff.
> 
> Song: “It’s the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine)” / REM / *gestures around* (see work end notes)

The Conclave March was a miserable, cold slog up the Frostbacks beyond a tiny town called Haven. The Temple of Sacred Ashes was massive and ornate, even as a ruin, and I didn’t like the whispers I was hearing from the other soldiers. Horrific things had happened here, and not too long ago. The nature of these acts was vaguely hinted at in the way some soldiers gave a wide berth past certain parts of town and made little gestures of warding in the Temple itself. Some of them murmured in dark whispers about it, but I did my best not to listen.

Hawke and I kept to ourselves, as ordered. Our job, so far as the other Templars were concerned, was to guard the mid-ranking members of the Chantry - clerics and the like - though we were allowed nowhere near the elite soldiers and Tal-Vashoth mercenaries who protected the Divine. 

I had no way of knowing how far along in the talks the Divine and the others were getting. It seemed to me there would be stalemate for ages if Justinia had considered an Exalted March on Kirkwall _before_ Anders had done his deed, and as the hours and days wore on, it became harder to see exactly what our roles were. Ser Tyler was seldom to be found, so we could not ask him how close we were to seeing the job done.

When those Enchanters, Clerics and Mothers important enough to engage in the talks were ensconced within the deepest rooms of the Temple, Hawke and I found ourselves at loose ends. Formal guard rotations only took up so much time when there were so damned many of us. Within the makeshift barracks created in one of the greater rooms, I observed the mages and Templars as tensions rose, declined, and eventually fell off entirely, much to my surprise. Someone would break out a deck of cards or a pouch of dice, someone else a skin or a bottle, and suddenly no one among the lower ranks was invested in the war any longer. They were tired, and if they couldn’t go home, then they wanted a bit of diversion and a drink before bed.

Some diversions were more interesting than others. It was easy to see who amongst the two factions had taken up with one another, and who had taken up with members of the opposing side. We kept our heads down and mouths shut, however. As slippery as I’d had to be to evade Danarius - and as clever as Hawke had always been - Varric had taught us a lot about watching without seeming to be. Besides, Hawke didn’t much care whether there was fraternizing and co-mingling because he’d disliked the formal stance on magic in the first place. When someone could take your sister away from you in the name of the Maker - for a Maker-given talent, no less - well, the lesser rules suddenly didn’t make much sense at all to him. I felt for him, but I had no frame of reference of my own. Magic was dangerous, but I had to grudgingly admit that locking them all away wasn’t much of a solution.

I spent a lot of time concealing my appearance. I had to feign modesty and cold nature as a smokescreen to keep my markings hidden, using one of the side rooms to change my uniforms and apply the concealing salve that Leliana had given me. I was actually grateful for the cold, because I had to keep a thin pair of gloves and full sleeves on. 

The rest of our off-duty hours stretched out, long and monotonous. We polished our armor and boots, sharpened blades, fletched bolts, all in preparation for some nameless conflict that never came. That was a good thing, but the lack of purpose nagged at us both.

One afternoon, I found myself confronted by a young recruit with a piercing grey gaze. He stepped directly into my space and tipped his chin up. I could feel Hawke bristling beside me in anticipation; the recruit’s stance was far too aggressive for pleasantries.

“You’re an odd-looking one,” he said to me. “Grange, isn’t it? Your name doesn’t match your face. How’d a knife-ear get into the Templars? ‘S weird, is what that is.” 

Hawke would have advanced on the recruit and laid him out flat if I hadn't intervened and held him back with a forearm. Even so, he leaned into me heavily, glancing between me and the Templar, eyes all but begging permission.

A fight was the last thing we needed. “As it happens,” I said in direct defiance of Leliana’s order to spin no stories, “my parents were killed by a band of apostates while traveling between alienages. I was found by a passing caravan and raised in a small chantry in Ferelden. Andraste’s light guided me down this path, and - well, I’ll admit that I received some special favors from a cleric in the upper ranks. He recognized my faith and saw me into the Templars.” 

He glanced down, considering my tale. He no longer had the look of a man seeking trouble. 

“You won’t report me, will you?” I asked, feigning nervousness. “All I’ve ever wanted to do was stand beside the faithful and keep the people safe from magic.”

After a moment, the recruit shook his head and waved his hand. “Ah, you’re all right. Guess it doesn’t much matter what shape your ears are, so long as you’re not stealing from us or bedding our women.”

Hawke leaned in again, eyes burning as the recruit spouted his casual racism, and I rested my hand against his chest in a way that implied more than just holding him back. “I am not a thief,” I promised, “and I am certainly not bedding your women.” 

At that, the recruit’s eyes widened and a flush crept high into his cheeks. He opened his mouth, shut it, and then nodded his head. “I’ll just be,” he began, and then he simply marched off.

Hawke stared at me, eyes wide. “Well done, Fenris,” he murmured. “Very impressive.” He looked down at my hand, still on his chest, and I dropped it and stepped back, clearing my throat.

“I’ve had plenty of time to run through it in my mind,” I said with a shrug. “I knew it would come up sooner or later.” I watched the recruit disappear around a distant corner. “Don’t tell Leliana.” 

“Fenris,” Hawke replied drily, “I bet she already knows.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Evening meal. This was a thin stew, more like a gruel with tiny bits of rabbit and local roots. It was served to us in flimsy metal mugs, and the very air sucked the heat out of it almost immediately. I wondered grudgingly what the elite were eating while we slurped down this watery muck. It was disgusting, but it filled the empty spaces for a while, so eat we did. Sometimes there was bread. Those were not necessarily good dinners, but they were better.

We sat on our pallets a little bit away from the others, drinking and chewing through our cups of misery. I had worked very hard to avoid commenting on Hawke’s apparent need for the manifesto to be in his hand or pocket at any given time of the day. Here it was again, though, and I cleared my throat. When he looked up at me, I asked, “Why?” 

He blinked. “‘Why’ what?” 

I nodded toward the ratty parchments. “You’re not a mage,” I said carefully. “Why is that so important?” 

Hawke actually looked irritable for an instant. “It was his life’s work. Why wouldn’t it be?” 

I raised a hand. “I’m sorry, Hawke. It just seems as though you’re torturing yourself. He made absolutely certain that whatever is in that manifesto was rendered impossible. Mages will never have freedom if they’re waging open war in the streets. Even their apologists were doing it in their absence in Ostwick.” 

“Their ‘supporters,’” Hawke corrected tightly. “For most mages, there was never anything to apologize for. You know, maybe you should read this. I think you still don’t understand what they go through in their daily lives.”

I made an involuntary face, a mixture of distaste and refusal. “Of course I don’t; I never pretended to. I’m not in the Circle. But even a strong mage - like Bethany - is at risk of possession.” 

His face turned thunderous. “You leave my sister out of this.”

“Why? She is a mage. She’s a good one - in every sense, Hawke. But even she -”

“Stop it. You have no idea what you’re talking about.” He folded the manifesto up and tucked it behind a leather strap inside his gauntlet.

Resentment flared in my chest. “Don’t treat me as though I’m stupid - I’m not, and you’re not blind. I have spent this many years by your side and hers, have I not? I have seen her struggle as she draws on powers that could prove fatal, even if she were not vulnerable to demons -”

“Shut. Up.” Hawke glared, and I knew I had tripped a dangerous switch. His voice carried a bitter sneer: “Your problem, Fenris, was that you always thought you were better than Anders - and Bethany, since you’re the one who mentioned her. An escaped mage is a criminal, an apostate, but you - oh, you have your ‘little wolf’ angst, and naturally an escaped _slave_ must automatically be worthy of admiration.”

The look I saw in that moment was the look he’d given Imbert, and my lyrium burned like my anger and my sore heart. He’d known just where to wound me deepest, and that was the problem - I had, too. I had known that invoking Bethany would lead us nowhere good, but I’d done it anyway. 

This could go absolutely no further.

I unfolded myself from my spot and stood, glancing around at mostly-empty pallets and one or two Templars sleeping in preparation for midnight guard. Hawke had turned his gaze away from mine, the fury still roiling in his eyes. I walked out into another area of the Temple, not really caring where I went. I had to leave before I said something that would cost us both more than we could afford.

~ ~ ~ ~

“...-king up… day already… really can’t leave him like this.” Voices were muffled by heavy wood. The glint of swords surrounded me. My knees ached against cold stone, shackles rattling as I shifted. I flashed back to a moment when I’d been chained to the floor much this way - at the foot of Danarius’ bed, to be precise. I shoved the memory away, trying to think.

A dull throb in my left hand turned to a sharp bite, then screaming pain as a searing green light burst into life on my palm. The pain spread through the white tracks on my arms. My chest. My legs. It was everywhere, this green and white fire, following the paths of lyrium over my skin, and it left me gasping for air, fist clenched and teeth gritted against the feel of lightning and fire in my skin.

I heard a tap on the wood, and a heavily-armored door clanged open. I was in a dungeon, I realized. Soldiers cleared the way for two humans - women - silhouetted against the bright white of sky and sun reflecting on snow before the door was closed again.

I closed my eyes to let my vision adjust to the sudden return of darkness, then looked up at them. 

Cassandra and Leliana. 

I tugged at the shackles holding me to the floor. “What - what is this?” I demanded, trying to sound fierce. I didn’t do a very good job of it. My head, skin, and knees all ached, and my heart began to thrum faster. I tugged at the cuffs again. I was chilled all over, not just where I touched stone or metal, and I realized I was in the thin leather of a scout. Not mine, and not Templar armor. 

What in the Void was happening?

Cassandra stepped forward, her gaze full of… anger? Pain? I did not know her well enough to be sure. 

“Explain this,” she gritted out, grabbing the wrist of the hand enveloped in vivid green light. 

I blinked. “I can’t,” I muttered, watching her warily. The green split on my hand sparked as if in response to her emotion, stinging all the while. I couldn’t imagine what had happened, but the deep, secret voice that had helped me escape Danarius told me if I did what they asked and kept my head down, I might find a way out. 

She shoved my hand away from her as though it were offensive. “Can’t you? And I suppose you have no knowledge of how you alone survived the explosion at the Conclave?” 

“I - what?” I looked up at her, into her now clearly enraged face. “Explosion?” I shook my head, and then panic gripped me. “Hawke. Where is Hawke?”

“Dead. The mountaintop, the entire Temple - leveled.” 

My heart stopped, and my lyrium flared. “No. No, that can’t be.” 

Leliana crouched next to me and rested her hand on my shoulder to calm me. “Do you remember how this began?”

I squeezed my eyes shut, searching for my most recent memory. The pain made it so difficult to think. Then I remembered… a little. An argument... “Hawke and I - we were talking. I got angry and walked away. That’s all I remember.”

Cassandra paused a moment as if weighing whether she should accept my answers, and then it appeared she either did not care or could not see past her own veil of grief. “I think you’re lying,” she said flatly, but she almost didn’t sound as though she believed it. 

Leliana stood and shook her head. “We can’t know that, Cassandra.”

“And now the Conclave is destroyed,” Cassandra went on as though she hadn’t heard. “They are all dead,” Cassandra said sorrowfully - and then she turned, pinning me with her wounded gaze. “Except for you.” 

My mind was racing. I could not think of anything but Hawke, and I could not feel anything but agony and betrayal. When Leliana turned to me, I stared back. My sorrow mingled with panic and began to surge in me, and I felt a fresh, burgeoning fury at being chained to the floor like - 

Like a slave.

My rage eclipsed my sorrow and fear. White light exploded from the lyrium on my skin, and the shackles fell through empty air to the floor. I put one foot forward, then used it to stand. The soldiers that still surrounded me stepped back and drew their swords again.

I weighed my options. I was alone without plate or a weapon, but I could take a few down before they felled me. As I stood there, breathing hard, my body naturally assuming a fighting stance, Leliana stepped in front of me. 

Her calm gaze locked with mine. “Fenris. We are not here to hurt you. We need answers, and you are our only source of them.” 

I let out an angry snarl, but when her expression did not change, I realized perhaps it would be better not to die on this day. I took a breath, and then another, trying to relax. 

“Good.” Leliana nodded in approval of my effort and waved a hand; the soldiers stood down. “Will you try to remember what happened?” she asked with a pointedness that made me feel I _should_ have. 

I prodded my memory for later moments, struggling to keep breathing calmly. The fight. I had used “Bethany” and “demon” in the same breath, he had used “slave.” I had walked away. 

“There’s nothing,” I said - and then a nightmare flash:

> _Danarius, his eyes so ebon that they seem to absorb the unholy green light from the very air around us. Hawke standing beside him, saying, “Make it worth my while and then take him. I’ve got a newer, prettier slave; I don’t need to be bedding two.” My heart goes cold in my chest, my voice is completely useless. Danarius advances on me, ensorcelled shackles at the ready. “Come along then, Little Wolf. I’ve no time for games.”_
> 
> _I run from the nightmare to the golden silhouette -_

I shook my head to clear the revulsion, an angry grunt escaping my throat as my frustration grew. “I remember running,” I finally got out, forcing calm into my voice, though I certainly did not feel any. “I was being chased by… _things_ -” I was certainly not going to bring Danarius into the conversation - “and then… a woman.” 

“A woman?” There was something in Leliana’s voice like hope, and she watched me expectantly. 

I shook my head. “That is all.” 

She tightened her lips in disappointment.

Cassandra, her face dark and severe, seemed to remember herself. She pulled Leliana away to speak a moment, voices hushed: orders? who was in charge? where they were heading? It didn’t matter. I was in no position to do anything but follow, and the anger began to swell again.

“You can’t keep me prisoner,” I growled. “I don’t remember what happened, but that doesn’t make me guilty.” 

“And it doesn’t make you innocent,” Cassandra pointed out. She gave her attention back to Leliana and nodded once, and then Leliana took her leave. 

Cassandra turned to me, and then her shoulders slumped as she seemed to relent. “We don’t intend to keep you prisoner, but we need answers.” 

Relief and suspicion warred in my mind alongside gnawing worry. How was any of this possible? How did I not remember?

I looked up at her, shoving my hair back out of my face and clearing my parched throat. “I don’t have any answers for you, so what now?” 

Drained of anger, now she simply looked to be in exhausted grief. “Now, we build something from the tattered remains.” She gestured for me to precede her out into the biting winter air. 

“Wait,” I said, hesitating. “I have so many questions - why were you not at the Conclave? Hawke and I saw so many leaders there, but never you or Leliana.” 

Cassandra sighed. “It wasn’t just us. There were other councilors and officials who were not in attendance. We didn’t need to be there because we were not presenting the cause. 

“The Divine knew that if she had offered this revolutionary idea with her full might flanking her, she would have seemed more like a ruler - a dictator, even - and less like a woman of faith. It was important to her that she show herself plainly, with neither dagger nor shield.”

I nodded in understanding. “Then… where were you?” 

“Wherever we could be. Coordinating supply chains for the Conclave. Attempting to organize the remaining Templars. Avoiding the rogue mages.” She shook her head. “As much as we wanted to be by Justinia’s side, that was not where we were needed - and in the end, it saved our lives. For what purpose, I do not yet know.” She looked at me for a moment, frank curiosity in her eyes. “It makes your survival all the more strange.” 

“The longer I live in this world,” I murmured, “the more I am beginning to believe strangeness follows me.” 

Her expression turned an odd sort of amused resignation. “Then you need to see this - not that you will want to.” She opened the door and led me outside.

The sun was too bright, even through light clouds. No; that wasn’t right. The _sky_ was too bright in its entirety. Then I saw it: a swirling storm of the same stark green on my palm, but this thing in the sky seemed to draw the earth up into itself. It flickered and pulsed, making a constant, humming roar. My skin, my palm, and especially the white lyrium markings drawn all over me seemed to answer the tempest call of it in angry little surges. I shifted in my clothes, in both physical and mental discomfort.

“We call it ‘the Breach…’”

~ ~ ~ ~

On the short journey to the forward camp, Cassandra’s allowance of a cast-aside sword made me narrow my eyes at first; I expect she’d granted it because she had no choice. I wasn’t going to cower behind her, and she… well, I suppose she didn’t want me that close at her back. Leliana would have known - and shared - what abilities the lyrium afforded me. 

I felt a wave of nausea as fresh pain washed through me: more demons than the sparse few we’d encountered. A miniature, crystallized version of the sky-thing hovered just above our heads, and the mark and my lyrium pulsed in painful synchrony with it. It spewed out its preternatural creatures, and once we had hewn down the last demon (and before I could scarcely look in Varric’s direction in surprise), a strange elf grabbed my wrist. 

“Quickly! Before more come through!” 

He thrust my hand toward the rift, palm upward, and I watched in growing horror as I - _I_ \- sealed the damnable thing. I felt a tug all through my being, as though all the strength in my body were being pulled upward, and then the energy the rift emitted was suddenly sucked back into the mark in my palm. It created an irrepressibly bizarre feeling, electric and sluggish at once. It hummed up my arm and into my body, centered in my chest and then, with a reverberating implosion, it dissipated.

I stared down at my hand a moment, then turned away to vomit. 

“What fresh nightmare is this?” I demanded hoarsely, silently accepting Varric’s proffered aleskin. I poured the ale carefully into my mouth, rinsed, spat, then did it again, leaning heavily against a large rock. The odd, hairless elf began to explain his ideas about the mark and its impact on the rifts and possibly the Breach itself - apparently it, and therefore I, was some kind of key. The second time the aleskin was offered, I drank deeply and gave the dwarf an apologetic look. He returned the expression and took his own swallow. 

The last time I’d seen Varric sorry for anything, it had been made of red lyrium.

To say that the dwarf was a welcome sight would be a vast understatement, in spite of blow after blow descending on me about this Breach and what I had just endured. But even as we paused to clasp wrists, there lay a grim understanding between us: Hawke was gone. 

As we moved toward the site of the primary rift I was supposed to be able to seal, I explained to Varric as much as I could: my last memory of Hawke had been followed by horrors and a golden being who had apparently handed me down from the Fade itself. The name “Andraste” was being whispered by the soldiers far too often for my liking.

“That is some shit,” he said, and I nodded, keeping my head down as I watched the snow and ice before my boots. 

“But at least you believe you were innocent, don’t you, Broody?” Varric’s tone was teasing; impossibly bright for the circumstances. 

“I don’t remember what happened,” I nearly snarled, shooting him an angry look. How could he be making light of this? He was Hawke’s dearest friend. The question irritated me on top of my sorrow, and I was still on edge from having been chained to the stone floor of the dungeon. 

“Easy, Elf,” Varric cooed. When he looked up at me, his eyes showed him to be tense and sorrowful under the incessant humorous edge. 

I dropped my gaze. I did not want to jeopardize my only friendship in this disaster. 

Cassandra was watching me curiously. “I am glad you have at least one friend among us, though I am sorry that Hawke is dead.”

The words stabbed at my heart, and my eyes prickled. I could not find my voice.

“Seeker,” Varric grumbled, “in case you were wondering, your bedside manner is kind of shitty.” 

“I am not here to coddle him, Varric,” she pointed out hotly. “I am here to find the truth.” 

Varric made an angry grunt, but closed his mouth. I briefly rested my hand on his shoulder, and though he glanced up at me with an expression of gratefulness, he did not speak again.

The strange elf was named Solas. He had managed to keep me alive after I’d fallen out of the rift (though I deliberately did not ask by what means), but his interest in me surpassed the medical or even the magical. He seemed at once knowledgeable and ignorant of the workings of the rifts. In addition to all of that, he claimed have taught himself magic without a Circle or even so much as a Keeper. 

I hated him at once. 

“I have seen many things within the Fade - and outside of it,” Solas said. “My hope is that I can be beneficial to the effort.” 

“Perfect,” I muttered as we walked. He was contradiction in the flesh, truly, and the more I got to know him, the less I understood. 

“You seem awfully disgruntled given your situation.” Even the way he dug his staff into the snow with each step rankled me. “You’ve survived. Perhaps a more open attitude -”

“You may take your ‘open attitude’ and shove it up your arse,” I told him, and Cassandra let out a small, shocked gasp. “I went up a mountain to help solve an unsolvable problem for people who wanted to work inside a ‘grey area.’ I came down to find everyone dead. My willingness to be open is at an end.”

“I am only suggesting that you allow yourself to learn more, and perhaps the memories of what happened will come -”

“Chuckles…” Varric warned darkly. 

I stopped walking and stood in Solas’ path. “Let’s assume that I _want_ to remember the death of the man I loved, shall we? Let’s say that I am willing to do everything in my power to determine what happened and why. Commissioned sappers? Political machination? Andraste herself deciding one destroyed religious institution wasn’t enough for an Age?”

Cassandra, now deeply offended, stepped into my space. I was feeling my anger, however, and was not yet done. My lyrium was livid again, and I noticed Solas watching me closely. “What good does that do?” I demanded of Solas, then Cassandra. “Does it bring them back - the Divine? The leadership? Hawke?” At their silence, I nodded slowly. “Let’s get where we’re going and get this - whatever it is - over with.”

“Very well,” Cassandra said simply. She gestured for me to continue walking.

Solas scowled. It was clear that he wanted to preen over the fact that that he was the only one with any true understanding of the Fade, and yet… it was more than that making me prickle. He wasn’t saying anything of use, and I didn’t care to know about the small particulars of the magic. I decided that had I been a mage, I would have detected a wave of frost rolling off of him. 

“How did you come by those markings?” he eventually asked as we neared the Temple. “They appear to be interacting with the mark. They are not like any vallaslin that I have seen before.” 

I had no idea why he was still speaking. Perhaps a pommel to the head would make it clear that I was not interested. “No, they are not,” I muttered. The mediocre know-it-all tilted his head at me. I could see he was not satisfied and would not let it go, so I clarified, “They are not vallaslin at all. I ‘came by them’ at the behest of a Tevinter magister in an explosion of blinding agony.” 

I gave a grim smile when he finally shut his arrogant mouth.

As we neared our destination, I spotted Cullen, of all people. He had his back to us, though something about his posture - and that hair - was unmistakable. He was addressing a runner and signing some missive or another when Cassandra moved into his field of vision. 

“I hope what they say about you is true,” he was muttering as he turned, “we lost a lot of good - Fenris!” he exclaimed. “You?” He looked at Cassandra to confirm.

“It’s true,” Cassandra said. “Impossible that the survivor of such a blast was a man that we sent ourselves - yet here we are.”

“I can’t believe it. And… Hawke?” he asked, but he needed no further answer when he looked at our faces. “Oh. I’m very sorry.”

“So are we all,” Varric said morosely. His voice caught, and I gave his shoulder a squeeze.


	6. Then It Dropped A Pride Demon On Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris, Cassandra, Varric, and Solas make their way to the first rift in the Temple of Sacred Ashes. As they prepare to close the rift that is apparently the key to the Breach, Fenris makes a few more discoveries than he really cares for. 
> 
> The story will span the end of DAII and through the timeline and some very specific events of Inquisition. THIS IS NOT A WALKTHROUGH FIC.
> 
> POV is Fenris'.
> 
> This chapter SFW, PG-13ish.
> 
> Song: "The Show Must Go On" / Queen / Fenris (see end notes)

“This is where you fell out of the Fade,” Cassandra said. “They said there was a woman behind you. No one knows who she was.” 

I looked around us at the leveled waste at the top of one of the Frostbacks. The ground was… not scorched, no, that wasn’t enough. It looked _melted._ There were bodies strewn about, whole and otherwise, some kneeling, some looking as though they’d simply fallen asleep. It appeared that many of them had been coated in molten rock and then solidified. The only way anyone could have survived this was to simply not have been there. The horror of it was all-encompassing. As we walked across the wasteland that used to be the Temple of Sacred Ashes and then rounded a corner of a somehow-standing wall, I spotted a familiar shape on - and partially in - the ground. 

“No,” I breathed. “No, no, _no_.” I rushed to it and, crouching down, I gripped an edge and tugged at it. It didn’t come easily, but I was able to get most of it. 

Hawke’s gauntlet.

Tucked inside it was the half-burned remains of a few pages of the manifesto.

I sat heavily in the dirt and ash, clutching the destroyed gauntlet to my chest. I had known, but I hadn’t _realized._ I hadn’t fully let myself come to awareness. Now it was here, and I couldn’t -

Abruptly, a sob tore itself out of my throat, and it opened a floodgate inside me, one that I had locked down so tightly that I had forgotten about it. I had ordered myself to avoid it at all costs, and now it sat directly in my path and would not be denied. The pain made a knot in my heart, solid and real. I curled over the gauntlet, rocking. Sobs wracked my chest as I hugged the destroyed bit of armor so tightly that it hurt my hands and dug into the leather tunic I wore. I felt as broken as it was, more so than I had ever been, and I wept as I had never done before.

I don’t know how long I sat there; I only know that Varric’s hand was on my shoulder, and no one interrupted. The tears flowed as enraged, sorrowful cries ripped themselves out of me until my throat was ragged and sore. The lyrium had long since chimed in with its own burn. 

But I began to realize that the tears did nothing for me, and the echo of my own anguish against the broken char of the Temple was pointless noise. After a while, I finally began to quiet, sniffling and scrubbing the tears from my puffy eyes. Someone produced a handkerchief, and I cleaned my face and blew my nose. 

Slowly, slowly, I pulled calm around me, rebuilding my walls. The ground was cold beneath me, and I became aware that I had all but crushed the leather gauntlet. The smell of something indistinct and scorched permeated everything. It reminded me of the stench in the Gallows after Meredith, but it was different enough to be freshly offensive. All of it felt distant, immaterial. 

And it was. Nothing mattered but this gauntlet and what had caused it to be lying here, broken, in the melted and refrozen ground. 

I looked at Varric. His cheeks were wet, too, and I slung an arm around his waist to hug him. He hugged me back, squeezing my arm, and then I slowly got to my feet, turning to my new band of comrades.

“I want that thing torn out of the sky,” I snarled, pointing behind me at the Breach, “never mind what I said before. I will do anything it takes to find whoever - whatever - is responsible, and may _all_ the gods have mercy on them when I do.” 

Solas looked a little taken aback, though his expression recovered quickly. I marked his surprise and decided that it was unimportant. He didn’t have to understand me, and there was no need for us to bond over this catastrophe. If they were going to put me in charge - which, Maker help them all, it looked like they were - then all he had to do was follow orders. Or get out of my way.

Cassandra looked pleased with my intensity, as did Varric. 

“We should move on,” I said firmly, and we continued on to where Leliana and her agents had posted themselves.

~ ~ ~ ~

The rift flashed and shifted, crackling. It made uneven, broken noises like someone beating on stone with a crystalline hammer, and the air felt thick and electric as we circled an open courtyard that had once been the center of the Temple. The courtyard was a good distance below us, and we had to find a way down to it.

We rounded a corner and passed through what used to be a corridor, and after a moment of picking our way over broken bricks and fallen arches, Varric faltered. “You know this stuff is red lyrium, Seeker.” 

“I see it, Varric,” she replied a little testily. 

Their bickering faded from my attention because the nearer we came, the more my own markings protested. The song of it reverberated through me like silken agony, melding with my lyrium, a call that my heart and mind wanted to respond to but that my body couldn’t bear. I cried out, my skin vibrating all over. There was so _much_ of it, and every bit screamed my name. What was happening to me?

“Fenris?” Solas was watching me closely. 

“The - the lyrium. I can’t -” I staggered several steps back from it, then a few more. 

Varric looked alarmed. “But you were with us when we found the idol. Shit, you were there with Meredith - it didn’t do that to you before. ” 

I doubled over, hands on my knees as I tried to breathe through the last of the pain. “It must be this,” I guessed, showing my glowing, green palm.

“With the mark interacting with your own lyrium, I’m sure it is,” Solas said. “Everything is intertwined now. The Fade corrupted this lyrium. What was placed upon your hand is of the Fade. The result is no surprise.”

I growled in frustration and not a little fear, straightening and glaring at him. “Are you telling me that the mark is going to turn my lyrium red?” 

“No, I am simply suggesting a reason for why red lyrium would affect you - though the question is a valid one. For now, we must address the more pertinent question of how to get past it.”

“Shit,” Varric sighed. 

There was a railing running alongside our path, and I went to it, peering down over the edge. It was a good drop, but survivable. “I can jump.” 

Cassandra shook her head firmly. “Absolutely not. It’s too far; you’re no good to us dead.”

I turned to her. “I have to get down there to get to that rift.” I pointed to it; it looked almost level with us, but it was too far away.

“Then we move quickly,” she insisted. “I will get between you and the lyrium and act as a buffer.”

“Seeker -” Varric began, but she cut him off. 

“I will not let him leap into the Temple that way - we need him. There are stairs just beyond the lyrium that lead down. We can jump the railing there.”

Dread coiled in my stomach. The pain had been terrible, and I was more afraid of that song than the several-yard drop to the floor. I nodded anyway; we had to get this over with. 

“I don’t like it,” Varric tried again, but she ignored him.

“Stay close to me,” Cassandra ordered. I moved beside her on her left, and she raised her shield high on her right. I had no idea if this was going to work.

As we moved forward at a fast walk, then a jog, I felt the sizzling hum of a barrier jump to life over my skin - Solas. Even that and whatever shielding ability Cassandra had as a Seeker of Truth made it difficult to run - the crimson song reached through me, _feeling_ me, as though it knew me. The roar of the fire in my blood was undeniable, and I staggered. Cassandra instantly looped an arm about my waist and hauled me along until we were past it and around the railing on the stairs. She let go of me, hopped down the ledge into the courtyard, then dropped her shield to help me over.

I gasped in relief as the burn ebbed away again. My muscles trembled and my nerves jumped, both from the exertion and the wash of adrenaline in the midst of pain. I was suddenly exhausted, everything in me drawn toward the ground.

“Oh, now that just sucks,” Varric muttered as he scrambled over the ledge. As soon as his boots hit dirt, he was by my side, looking up at me in concern. 

“I’m fine,” I panted. “Well - I’m better.” Then I shook my head. I wasn’t fine, and I really wasn’t much better. I was vibrating with terror. Every bit of this just kept getting worse.

Then the voices started. 

They reverberated almost like the lyrium’s song, not in my ears but in my being, as though I were the lute string and not the listener. The vision appeared, and we were standing in the middle of it.

_“Keep the sacrifice still.”_ It was a large, shapeless figure with glowing eyes. Something tickled at the back of my memory, a strange familiarity. Was I remembering, or hearing anew? I was unsure.

_“Someone! Help me!”_

Cassandra’s eyes widened, and she put her hand over her mouth. “Divine Justinia!”

_“What’s going on here?”_ My own voice, angry. Outraged. I frowned deeply, and the livid green on my hand began to spark.

_”Run while you can! Warn them!”_ The Divine again. I remembered none of this, but she had been speaking to me. In the Fade, or out of it?

_”We have an intruder.”_ The figure pointed, and I felt a chill run down my spine as it seemed to look directly at me. _”Slay the elf.”_

“You _were_ there!” Cassandra gasped. The vision receded as she moved around to confront me. “What is happening? Was this vision true? Tell me!”

“I still don’t remember,” I said, shaking my head. 

“The Fade bleeds in this place,” Solas murmured, and thankfully, Varric cut him off. 

“I wish it would quit bleeding and just die already. I’m sick of this shit.” 

Solas simply shook his head and turned his attention to Cassandra. They spoke a moment about how to deal with the rift and use Leliana’s archers, and I lost the thread as I reeled from what I had just heard. I had never been anywhere near the Divine. Hawke and I had been sent in as lower-ranked Templars, little more than guardsmen. It made no sense. 

“Fenris,” Cassandra called. “We have to open this rift before it can be sealed. That means demons.” 

I nodded, unsheathing my sword and resting its tip on the ground. The mark was crackling in anticipation, and the fringe of it felt as though it were trying to either draw closed or split farther apart. It felt as though I should be able to see it twitching.

Cassandra gave the signal, and the archers and swordsmen readied themselves. I raised my hand to the rift and felt the tug of the Fade magic pull through my hand, along my arm, through my body. The explosive crack pulsed through me, and the rift was open. 

“Fuck,” Varric said in an uncharacteristic, conversational shift upward in his profanity. My eyes widened as the pride demon stepped into the world. 

The thing was massive, and even as I charged it, I realized this was not to be destroyed by conventional means. I was barely nicking it, and I was only knee-high.

“We must strip its defenses!” Cassandra yelled, and it let out a horrible, thunderous chuckle. 

“Disrupt the rift!” Solas cast another barrier over me as a wave of shades slithered out of rift tendrils and advanced. I scythed and hacked my way through them on my way back to the rift, palm searing. I threw my hand up - I was full of energy and fire from the battle, and I was quickly growing used to the burning tide that blew through me I interacted with the rift - and this time, the opening cracked differently. 

A blast of Fade energy swept the courtyard, and the demon of pride staggered and fell to a knee. The lesser demons dissipated under the force of the rift’s shockwave. Arrows rained down, and before I could sprint to her side, Cassandra had leaped up and was _climbing_ the thing, her shield raised to deflect the incoming projectiles. She stabbed her longsword into its back, dragged herself up, did it again. When the archers saw what she was doing, they focused their attacks lower, into its front. 

The demon looked as though it might revive, so I pushed everything I had up at the rift again. Seconds stretched to an eternity. Cassandra had reached the thing’s shoulders and had to drive her sword in deep as the demon shuddered, then tried to rise. This time, when I severed the connection to the rift, I jerked it, yanking the power back with my mind and my own lyrium. 

The demon let out an enraged scream, and Cassandra stood on its shoulder and drove her blade into its head. It convulsed, and she did it again. It finally slumped to the ground. She rolled off and dug her sword in to the hilt once more for good measure.

She turned to me and yelled, “Do it!” 

I shot my hand up yet again. I could feel the tug of magic, the push and pull between what was in me and what was _out there_ , and this rift… it was strong. It was solid, as though something on the other side wanted to hold it open. When it finally gave, the massive blast of energy ripped through me and - 


	7. I’m the /What/, Now?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first rift is closed, and it's halted the Breach's progress - which means Fenris has been declared (through no fault of his own) the "Herald of Andraste." Now begins the process of finding a way to seal the Breach, save the world, and get people to stop calling him "Herald."
> 
> POV is Fenris'.
> 
> This chapter SFW.
> 
> Song: “Somewhere I Belong” / Linkin Park / Haven (see end notes)

__

> _Danarius was gaining. He used some magical ability to propel himself forward on the dank green rock, his staff held high. Hawke’s beloved, horrific voice reverberated through the Fade, “...already have a slave. But perhaps I should keep him, after all. Anders might find a use…”_

I gasped and jerked awake, then sighed, heart pounding. Drenched in sweat in my sleep, I had managed to twist and kick the blankets off the end of the bed. Now I was shivering in the cold, but I had to close my eyes to gather myself. 

The nightmares were getting worse, though the ache in my hand had receded considerably since we’d - I’d - closed the first rift. I didn’t know what any of it meant - or if it was all meaningless circumstance. All I knew was that there was a black pit of mourning in my chest where Hawke had been, and the nightmares tormented me.

I had swung my feet to the floor, intending to stand and shut my window flap, when an elf walked in my door. The girl saw me shirtless and slouched over the side of the bed, hands gripping the edge of the mattress as I sought solidity. When I turned to look at her, she immediately dropped the tray she’d carried in. 

“You’re awake!” she gasped. Her eyes, wide and pale, cast about the room as though she’d rather look at anything but me.

“I am.” I tilted my head, confused by her demeanor. “Is this another prison?” 

“I… no? I don’t think so.” She lowered her gaze, biting her bottom lip as she belatedly took in the tray she’d dropped, but she made no move to clean it up. Something in her demeanor made me afraid that she was about to burst into tears. 

“Then where am I?” I demanded.

To my astonishment she dropped to her knees, bending all the way over, forearms against the stone. “I am but a humble servant, my lord,” she said into the floor. “I beg your forgiveness and your blessing.” 

“Don’t do that,” I ordered. I stood up from the bed and moved to crouch down beside her. She quaked, raising her hand as if to stave off a blow, and I shook my head. “I’m sorry - I’m not going to hurt you. Just…” I rested my hand on her shoulder. “You serve, but you are important. Remember that.” 

Her gaze remained on the stone floor for a moment; she seemed to be digesting my words. When she finally straightened to face me, she simply stared. 

I watched her in return until she nodded slowly. “I - I’ll try,” she said, still looking a bit like frightened deer, but at least she wasn’t exuding terror anymore.

I patted her shoulder a bit awkwardly and helped her to her feet, and then I had to ask: “Are you a slave?” The thought alone made me prickle.

“No, my lord!” she answered immediately, and her shock at the question assuaged me. “Lady Cassandra has provided for -” Her expression changed, as though she’d remembered something. “Lady Cassandra said she wanted to see you ‘at once.’ As soon as you awoke.” 

“Where is she?” 

“In the Chantry.” She backed toward the door. “‘At once,’ she said,” and she darted out, the door slamming hard enough behind her to shake the whole hut.

I stared after her for a moment, then shivered. I finally moved to shut the window flap. I could not think past the numbness of the present as I tugged on a tunic, the chest of it too loose against my skin. It rubbed on the markings and made me sigh irritably. At least it was something to feel besides anger and grief.

“Hawke,” I murmured to myself, and I rubbed my hands over my face. I said his name again, just to hear it, and then dropped my head. My hair drooped around my face, but I didn’t like the way it felt tied back. I decided to ignore it. It wasn’t as though I was here to impress anyone. I found a soft pair of boots at the foot of the bed and a cloak on the wall by the door. I put them on, opened the door - and stopped. 

Rows of people stood outside my hut. Some had bowed their heads. Most were saluting, their fists resting against their hearts. A few knelt. Overwhelmed, I stared around me. I wanted to demand that they all get to their feet, raise their eyes, but would they listen? Awkwardly, I murmured “thank you - that’s not necessary” several times as I made my way up through Haven and toward the Chantry. 

The priests moved aside, but they, I noticed, neither saluted nor knelt. One or two nodded, a couple looked as though they were praying, but these Chantry members made eye contact readily enough. No terrified elves, they. 

I was more comfortable with their lack of deference.

~ ~ ~ ~

The Herald of Andraste.

What in the depths of all the Void were these people thinking? They had no idea who I was, _what_ I was. _I_ no longer knew. 

Suddenly I had an inner sanctum full of councilors. I had Varric telling me to run at the first opportunity. I had Cullen explaining how much bureaucracy and organization this was taking. I had Josephine in my ear about this or that visiting dignitary. One even tried to claim Haven out from under us, calling us usurpers. Cassandra still wasn’t sure whether I was real or not - as though I hadn’t been standing in front of her - and she seemed more upset with herself than me on that count. Even Flissa, the barkeep, made a comment that Andraste had chosen me to shame humans for the way they’d treated elves. By the time that day was over, I all but fled to my little hut, wishing I could bar the door.

I had to breathe. I stoked my little hearth and toed out of my boots, then sat in the middle of my bed and focused on the markings. Bizarre as it was - and every time I had ever done it, I knew it was very weird - I closed my eyes, listened to my own breathing and the crackle of the fire, and let the markings simply deliver their steady thrum of pain. For a moment, I could pretend that there was nothing but this pain and quiet: no past filled with years of following Hawke around like an eager puppy, no Anders, no irreconcilable fight - and no death. 

Also, no future that involved me somehow leading hundreds of the faithful to a peaceful resolution of the hole in the sky. 

It almost made me scoff: My heart was scarred. I was a former slave to a Tevinter magister. I was an accomplice to murder - and a murderer myself, if I admitted it. Add to all of that the fact that I was an elf. I was only Andrastian because, once I’d discovered the differences between the southern Chantry and Tevinter’s, it had provided me some small succor on my lonely nights in Kirkwall. I didn’t sing the Chant or attend services; I was not faithful to Andraste. I had used her. 

None of that addressed what may or may not have happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

I’d heard the chatter, though. My white hair, dark skin, and glowing markings made me singular. I was unusual, if not unique, and therefore I fit the part. Yet for all the singularity that others saw, I knew the truth: I had never been my own man. I had been Danarius’, and then I suppose I had been Hawke’s, at least in my mind. Now that Hawke was gone and I did not know how to be my own man, I _was_ nothing. I was at the same time a symptom of and a balm for everyone else’s ailments; a poultice that would likely be discarded once the wound in the sky was healed.

If Andraste had chosen me for anything, she had poor taste. 

~ ~ ~ ~

Cullen stood in the smithy, looking over several weapon plans. Leliana had requested that I ask him to see her, so I approached him with some wariness. It had been Hawke and not me who’d saved Kirkwall from Orsino and Merideth, so I still wasn’t certain that Cullen trusted me. I already suspected he didn’t believe me worth the lives they’d lost. I suspected the same myself.

As I was standing beside him trying to decide whether to interrupt his work or let him address me, he turned to me. “Word is already getting out. Soldiers are reporting in. Civilians, too. We need all the help we can get, and people are stepping forward.” He looked at his plans again. “None have made quite the entrance that you did.” 

I quipped, “At least I got everyone’s attention.” 

“That you did.” Cullen chuckled, something that I, in my short experience with him, had never seen. I might not have thought him capable of it. His eyes crinkled at the corners just a bit, and I could see why many of the people around Haven followed him with their gaze when he passed. There was a kindness to him, something soft in his voice and in his eyes that might easily be overlooked by anyone just seeing the Commander. Even though he was one of the busiest people in camp and often doing several things at once, he was very attentive and focused. 

He flipped to another drawing, one of a longsword, and pointed at it. “That one,” he said to the smith. ”As many as you can.” He turned back to me, then asked, “Did you need something?”

“Leliana would like to speak with you in the war room,” I told him. 

He nodded crisply, and we made our way toward the Chantry. 

“Still having trouble remembering?” he asked, watching his footing as we moved past crunchy snow to mud.

“There’s nothing,” I sighed, shaking my head and considering that night again. “Our argument had been dire. I wonder…” I rubbed my forehead. “If we hadn’t fought, he might have…” 

I trailed off, shaking my head again. 

Cullen stopped in front of me and rested a hand on my shoulder. “You don’t know that,” he said. There was a touch of worry in his voice. “No one could. You’ll drive yourself mad thinking that way.”

Surprised, I looked up at him. “Why are you so concerned?” I was unable to stop myself from asking the question. “To some of you, I’m still a suspect.”

“To the Chancellor, perhaps, but not to me.” Cullen turned and continued walking, so I followed. “I saw Kirkwall. You were by Hawke’s side, doing the right thing. I have no reason to believe you abandoned your own principles to commit such a heinous act.”

That was a surprising comfort. Cullen had been through hard times - hadn’t we all - but he seemed a sensible man at heart.

The war table in the back of the Haven Chantry held a simplistic map of our corner of Thedas. When Cullen and I arrived, I saw Leliana considering a strategic place for what looked like a tent. 

I did not ask about it; I assumed the less I knew about the processes of this back room, the better.

Leliana placed her marker down and moved a banner post and an item that looked like a stone keep. “Cullen, Herald,” she greeted. 

“Fenris,” I corrected her, deeply uncomfortable at the implications of the title.

She looked up at me, her gaze a bit sharp, but she said, “Very well. Fenris. I have a lead on a Chantry mother in the Crossroads: Giselle. She is coordinating relief efforts and has set up a small camp there. I think we should speak to her. She knows the climate of the leadership in Val Royeaux and could be of help to us here.” 

“Good.” Cullen nodded his head. “As you make your way -”

“Me?” I asked, surprised. “Why me?” 

“Because you alone can close the rifts,” Josephine said as she entered, “and because the rumors have spread that you are the Herald. The people murmur that you have done great things, and yet no one has seen you. Too much of that, and they will begin to doubt your existence. That would be unacceptable.” 

She turned to Leliana. “I apologize for my lateness. The Baron du Olivier was attempting to convince me that there was a fifth Canticle, deliberately apocryphal, with very shocking admonitions about male… well. I believe he was merely attempting to make me blush.” 

Leliana and Cullen looked at her a moment, then he shook his head, muttering something about putting up with ridiculous nobles. 

“At any rate,” he continued, “here is a map of the countryside.” He spread the map, smaller than the main war table diagrams, and pointed to several spots on it. “Follow these waypoints so that you can set up camps. You can take Varric and Cassandra along. Solas should… probably go, as well.” He looked at me closely; it was an evident warning. 

I made an unhappy noise in the back of my throat. “Don’t make me do that.”

“I’m sorry, but we are, by all accounts, at war. You will need protection, assistance, and healing.” 

“He’s not a healer, and I already know what I need to know to seal the rifts.”

“Fenris…”

I grunted and deferred to him, but only because he not using that lofty title. “Fine, I’ll take him along. What is wandering through the countryside and occupying it going to do for the Inquisition’s image?”

Leliana pointed to the spots. “These campsites are set up strategically to attract travelers as well as establish a foothold. We can offer aid to the injured, help rout the rebel mages and Templars, and catch gossip as people move through. It is not only our image we are protecting, but that is important. It’s not an occupation, precisely. You can sway the opinion of a hungry man more easily if he is eating your stew.”

I stared, unsure whether I should be impressed or nervous.

“Then there’s the horsemaster,” Cullen said. “We’ll need to secure mounts for the Inquisition. I’ve also sent scouts to Redcliffe, but we’ve heard no news of late...”

I let him go on, folding the map he’d given me and trying to think. The Chantry mother, the horsemaster, Redcliffe… they seemed like idle errands while the sky vomited atrocities, but how could I even begin to navigate this nightmare? I didn’t trust anyone but Varric, but what choice did I have?

~ ~ ~ ~

We had to cut a path through the rebel mages and former Templars on our way to Mother Giselle. Among Cassandra, Varric, and Solas, there was plenty of bickering over which faction was more in the wrong. I kept out of it, myself. I had abruptly found that I was far more ambivalent than I should have been on the issue, and I didn’t care for that at all. 

When we’d cleared the Templar and mage threats, Inquisition agents greeted us at the Crossroads. They’d staked a banner in the center of the region. They had been in the process of protecting and providing aid to the people in the area - and promptly dropped everything when we arrived. 

“Herald,” one greeted, bowing his head and saluting. 

“Stop it,” I ordered, turning my face away to look for the Mother. “I am Fenris. Call me ‘ser’ if you don’t wish to use my name.” 

The two agents looked at one another, uncertain. 

“Just do it,” Varric said. “You’re not showing disrespect if that’s what he wants, right?”

They hesitated, then nodded, looking as though they’d be reporting back to Leliana with this affront posthaste.

“Where is Mother Giselle?” I asked, still looking around. 

“Just there, Hera-- _ser_ ,” one of them said, pointing. 

I saluted him before we walked away. It was the only way I could think to reward him for not calling me “Herald” one more time. 

The entire reason for the meeting was to deliver a simple missive to go to Val Royeaux and appeal to Chantry power, let them see that I was just an elf, not a monster with power over the Fade. By the time we were ready to leave the Crossroads again, I found myself very annoyed. 

“That was pointless,” I groused, studying the map to find the most direct route to our first camp. “She could have sent an owl.” 

“They’re crows,” Varric corrected helpfully. He looked at me blandly when I glared. 

“It was not pointless,” Cassandra said. “The Crossroads needed to be cleared of the mage and Templar threat. We saved many lives today, and Mother Giselle has agreed to help us. Her contacts may prove useful.” 

“We wasted four and a half days getting here on that off chance.” 

Cassandra put her hand over the map and pushed it down, then leaned in to force me to look at her. “You may not believe in what we’re doing here, but I do.” There was a conviction in her voice alongside her own annoyance with me, and I took umbrage at both. 

“Then you lead.” 

Her gaze shuttered, and she looked away. “That would not be my place. Besides, you are the one who can close the rifts.” 

I looked resentfully at my hand. “Believe me, I know. If I could give you this particular talent -”

“I would refuse.” 

I put the map down and waited for her to explain. I noticed Varric and Solas had both gone uncharacteristically quiet.

Cassandra sighed. “I see how difficult this is for you. We are all aware that you never wanted this power. But sometimes, we are called to a higher purpose. Your hardships do not define who you are, but they temper you, and I - many of us - see a strength in you that I do not see in myself.”

Her words surprised me, and I looked at the map again, shifting in mild discomfort. “Thank you.”


	8. It’s Really the Fish that Tastes Like Despair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Mother Giselle advises that The Herald - I mean Fenris - go to Val Royeaux, the Inquisition spends some time getting him ready to present himself before Madame de Fer. If any mission ever needed prep work, it's this one.
> 
> POV is Fenris'.
> 
> This chapter SFW (except the song).
> 
> Song: “Starf***ers, Inc.” / NIN / Val Royeaux (see end notes)

The horrible interaction between the usurped Seekers and the priest left all of us shocked and shaken. A couple of the younger Templars - including one who’d been on the dais with Mother Hevara - had objected but were quickly silenced. I had, of course, expected for someone to question my position within the Inquisition long before then, to call me a false prophet. That had always been a given. I resented that Leliana and Josephine were allowing the rumors of the Herald of Andraste to swell, and when addressing the mother, I tried to make it clear that _I_ had never made such a claim.

But when the Lord Seeker swept through, taking the remaining Templars with him, we were dumbfounded. Cassandra was visibly rattled, her brow furrowed and her face pale as she watched the Seekers march out. 

On top of that and completely apropos of nothing, I almost immediately found myself on the hunt for something named Red Jenny and invited to a soiree hosted at the Ghislain estate (not that I would have known who that was, had I been expected to).

Even as we moved to leave the Summer Bazaar, we were approached by a mage, one Fiona, apparently a former First Enchanter. She invited us to Redcliffe to speak with the group who had left the Chantry, and I had to wonder what she was doing in Val Royeaux at all. Would it not have been better to approach us at Haven? Or did our mere presence in the city lend us an air of power that Haven did not? 

“Do things always move so quickly here?” I asked Cassandra, rubbing my forehead and reeling. 

“Yes,” she said, and I was surprised by the quiver in her voice. “This is why I cannot stand Val Royeaux. I detest the Game and all that it entails - and this seems to be the Game at a sprint.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Dancing. 

No one ever said there would be so much of it. Or any at all, but this… with every snicker Varric let loose, my irritation spiked again. 

Josephine corrected my position for what must have been the hundredth time, placing my hand just above her hip. “Not too far back,” she admonished, “and not too low - there. Other hand in mine - yes.” 

“So much for all those choreographed routines,” Varric piped up from his spot in the corner. He was scribbling something down, as usual, and I glowered at him even as his grin widened. “What? Wrong kind of dancing, I guess?” 

“Dwarf, don’t make me lay you out flat,” I warned over my shoulder. 

Josephine gently took my chin in her soft hand, and if I said that she delicately forced me to face her again, that would be accurate. I imagined if she graciously asked someone to die, he would apologize and do so, then light his own pyre after. 

“Genteel behavior is paramount in the Game,” she reminded me. “Though you may be verbally eviscerating someone, it is most important that you never show the tumultuous emotions inside you. They will be used against you, and could cost you your life.” 

Leliana nodded in agreement and began to play again; Josephine began to move me to the music drifting up and around us from the lute. I felt clumsy and coarse, in part because I was wearing shoes. Before we parted, I caught the side of Josephine’s foot under mine and cursed softly. 

“Don’t stop,” Leliana instructed, continuing to pluck at the strings. “Carry on with the dance, even if you make a mistake. If you leave your partner on the dance floor, he - or she - will be very insulted and possibly humiliated. You do not want that.” 

I gradually adapted to the strange dance: a half-step here, a glide and turn, hands together, hands apart… and then another stumble. 

“Fasta vass,” I blurted, and Josephine tsked. 

“And you still need to learn to lead,” Varric put in. At my look, he shrugged. “Am I right, Ruffles?”

“I make a better follower than a leader,” I muttered wryly. It had become my motto as I’d attempted again and again to get Cullen or Leliana or _anyone_ else to take over. Varric snickered, but Josephine was shaking her head at me. 

“You must be prepared to take either role, depending on the dance. There is a scandalous new waltz in which the taller individual must always lead. If Vivienne takes leave of the hall for a moment -”

“Which she will do at least once,” Leliana informed me. 

“Yes. In that case, the conductor of the quartet will command that they play it. It is too… indecorous for her public sensibilities, but her friends at court adore and demand it. It suits her to grant them that, for some reason.”

It was a great deal to remember and seemed utterly senseless while the sky burned.

~ ~ ~ ~

Seeing Cullen frustrated was an unusual experience. He looked almost sheepish for it and seemed bound to go out of his way to avoid offending me. 

In an antechamber arranged like a dining room, I sat before an intricate place setting. To one side of me stood an easel with an extensive chart of a dinner table. There were arrows indicating first, second, third, and subsequent items in order of course, and the pile of dishes at the center of the setting was varied and as ludicrous as it had been in Minrathous. Seafood, salad, fish, meat, and cake forks, five types of goblet, four different spoons, two cups and saucers, three plates, two bowls.

“Only one napkin?” I asked, genuinely curious. “Are you certain they will allow me to blot soup and aperitif from my mouth with the same cloth?”

“Joke all you like,” Josephine smiled serenely, “but I must admit I am pleased that you remember such a detail from our discussion on the beverages.” 

“I wasn’t joking,” I muttered.

Cullen chuckled, and Josephine glanced sidelong at him. He cleared his throat. 

When I stretched my memory back to before I had been left with the Fog Warriors, I could recall dutifully examining my master’s table. The settings in Tevinter were slightly different than these; my position had required me to learn the intricacies of the banquet table for a specific purpose: to examine the settings for oddities. A spot on the bowl of a spoon could be a drop of powerful poison; an extra fold in a napkin could conceal an assassin’s blade.

I was beginning to see that I _did_ have skills that could be of use here. “In Danarius’ house,” I said conversationally, “slaves - even those in an elevated position, as I was - were often not allowed cutlery of any kind. We fashioned flat scoops and bowls out of old bread.” 

Josephine blinked, and she halted in her demonstration. “Oh,” she managed after a moment. “I’m - so very sorry.” 

I watched her struggle with the information about my past. She was trying to ease me into all of these rituals and preparations, and while I still could not determine why this was so important, I had to admit that she and Cullen were doing a good job. I had learned a lot, and while Tevinter didn’t play the Game (or at least they didn’t call it that), the heart of it was the same, and I needed every edge. Assassination attempts were not a sport; they were a way of life.

Cullen looked distinctly uncomfortable. I liked him - I had come to like both of them, actually - and I had to admit that I felt guilty for causing them consternation. 

“Don’t trouble yourself,” I said quietly. “It was long enough ago now that it doesn’t disturb me anymore.” 

I met Cullen’s gaze, but he said nothing. Josephine, for her own part, smiled hesitantly. Ah, I fooled no one; that much was clear, and now they were struggling to pretend I hadn’t reminded them of my slavery. I felt compelled to do it simply because it seemed as though it should matter. It was useful that they not forget how _unimportant_ I was.

“What’s this?” I asked by way of a distraction, pointing to the bottommost dish. It was wide, flat, and golden in color, different from the others. 

“That is a charger,” Josephine replied, obviously relieved to have the conversation move on. 

Looking at her questioningly, I spread my hands.

Josephine clarified, “It simply holds the other dishes in a decorative fashion.” She began to list the dishes from top to bottom, pointing them out on my plate. “Consomme - it is a delicate broth made from meat or poultry, though fish is also popular among areas nearest the water -”

“Ugh.” I grimaced at the idea. 

“Unfortunately, you must eat what is presented to you. It is the height of discourtesy to decline. Now, if there is anything to which you react badly, we must send a messenger with several reasonable alternatives at least two weeks in advance -” When I shook my head - foolishly, I later realized, given my hatred for fish - she went on. “The consomme will be followed by a light salad of greens and fruits that are in season. Bread will be supplied throughout the meal.” She indicated the tiny plate to the upper left of the main serving dishes. “It is considered uncivil to eat all of one type of food before any others; it implies that you are trying to get through a disliked item quickly, or that you dislike the other items and are avoiding them. Small bites, and set your cutlery down as you chew. Do not fill up on bread or wine.” 

“This is a lot of rules for a dinner.” My job in the banquet halls of Minrathous had always ended when the table had been checked for possible devices by which Danarius might be killed. Beyond that, the rituals of consumption were a mystery to me, as I had often simply stood over his left shoulder and let my eyes glaze until something suspicious came up. In any case, the rules were completely different there. I looked up at Cullen, who was nodding in solidarity. 

“Everything in Orlais comes with a lot of rules,” the Commander pointed out. “It’s a wonder you’re free to go to the latrine without being followed by an entourage that might demand a duel because you did it wrong.” 

“In civilian company, Commander, it is referred to as a privy.” Josephine offered a sweet but bland smile.

He scowled and folded his arms over his chest.

“At any rate, yes,” she went on. “There are a great number of rules, and all of them are equally important. You will be judged by many things, and one of them is how you eat. Now - beverages will be supplied as the meal carries on, as befitting the food pairings.” 

“Food… pairings. They mate, do they?” 

That brought a little giggle out of her, and I smirked. “You jest again, Inquisitor,” she said, clearing her throat, “but no self-respecting host or hostess would allow a delicate fowl to be served alongside a robust red wine - or a hearty druffalo with a sparkling white. The food and drink must complement one another - although there was one Season in which the rage sweeping Orlais was referred to as ‘culinary cacophony.’ Chocolate-dusted cod was very popular.”

I made a small retching noise. 

Cullen was circling the table, studying it as though it were a simulated battlefield. He looked as though he wanted to set the cake fork and custard spoon to war with one another. When I tilted my head to catch his gaze, he simply closed his eyes and shook his head. 

I turned my attention back to Josephine. “And this… complementing is a separate discussion from the entire presentation on the cordials and bitters as aperitifs and digestifs?” I asked. 

“You do remember!” Josephine burst out, delighted, and I had to admit to some small spark of pride. “On to the possible desserts, then: Orlais, and in particular, Val Royeaux, have become smitten with sweet dishes that you must open: a dome of chocolate atop a white cake, for example. Or a parcel made of a sugared crepe, filled with warm apples.” 

I looked up at her, interested for a change. “That sounds… better. I enjoy apples.” 

“Oh, good.” Josephine, having forgotten her earlier discomfort, was now back to being her exceedingly polite and effervescent self. “Often, they are lovely little morsels: a bite here, a taste there, and when combined, there is nothing else like them. And since you like apples, I will tell you that the palace cook makes an exquisite apple spice cake decorated in a spectacular fashion. I particularly enjoy the spun sugar strands. They are made from the sap of a tree that flourishes only in the cooler regions of Orlais and can be harvested only once a year.”

At the sight of my mildly intrigued expression, Cullen said quickly, “Now that one, I do like, though I’d much rather eat it without all the pretense surrounding it.”

I shook my head, staring at the elaborate table. “Pomp, fish, and tree sap. I am absolutely certain that you people have the wrong man.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Leliana’s comments about my carriage, my conversational tactics, and my manners - or, as I’m sure she was too tactful to say, my lack of them - ran into the dozens. The more I learned, however, the more I realized I already knew. My former life in and of itself had come with no small amount of intrigue. 

“There could be a blade anywhere,” Leliana said, wrapping the sash around my waist and tying it deftly. “Under a plate. Behind a statue -”

“In the folds of a gown,” I supplied. She looked at me, so I clarified, “I am not unfamiliar with dangerous people in high places. I was the bodyguard of a Tevinter magister.” 

“Keep that knowledge close to you.,” she said simply. “You may have need of it.” 

She closed my collar over the marks at my throat, and I grimaced. “Was it possible to choose an itchier fabric? I think someone missed her calling as a torturer.”

Leliana looked at me seriously. “I am sorry that it is uncomfortable for you.” 

“You are not alone,” Cassandra pointed out. She and Cullen were inspecting their uniforms, straightening this, retying that. Cullen found a bit of lint on her shoulder, and she discovered that his belt was crooked. Neither of them appeared to be happy about any of it, especially Cassandra. The Seeker looked as pleased with the uniform as I was about the idea of chocolate-covered seafood.

I opened my mouth to say they weren’t the ones with the embedded lyrium that made everything painful to wear, but decided against it. I was learning that we all had our difficulties, and all were relative - also, Varric had taken me aside and warned me quietly that the lyrium woes were frequent and awkward, and I should “lay off them.” I was working on it.

“Speak to as few people as possible,” Leliana went on. “Keep your answers simple, but polite. If you approach someone, ‘Messere’ is the preferred address, as it is appropriate for someone of higher rank. Do not use ‘serah.’ You may be of greater importance and power than anyone in the room, but none of them view you as such, especially since you are an elf.” 

At my irritated look, she sighed, “It is the truth, Fenris. You may be the Herald -”

“Stop it.”

“-but to them, you are a quaint yet fashionable diversion, nothing more. Even if you were human, you would be viewed with fascination and not a little disdain. At least, that is what they would have you believe. Playing the Game also sometimes requires that you give someone what they appear to want, or what is expected, so that you may strategically - and publicly - destroy it later. Now: if anyone asks about the Inquisition, give as little information as you can. The more you speak, the more rope you give them with which to hang you.”

I grunted. “Then why go? If a stray word risks provoking their ire and my death, then why are we engaging in this pointless revelry?” 

This time, Cullen spoke up, “I have to admit, I find myself wondering the same. Is this truly necessary?” Finally satisfied with his appearance, he smoothed his hands down his coat. He looked down at a chair, seemed to consider using it, then remained standing.

Leliana finished with my uniform, but then Josephine stepped in. She fussed with the collar of my formal doublet, and I resisted the urge to swat her hands away. The fabric wasn’t as horrible as I was making out, but I was already annoyed. I was also used to leather beneath armor, which stayed tight to my skin most of the time. This ol rubbed against my lyrium markings in a way that I found annoying. 

Josephine pointed out, “Madame de Fer does not do anything without a very deliberate reason. She may not know you, but she certainly knows us. If she wants you there, then you go.”

“And make no mistake, she has eyes everywhere,” Leliana added.

“What if she asks me about the massive green hole in the sky?” I persisted, lest anyone forget that part.

“I doubt that is the reason she has invited you to this soiree,” Leliana said thoughtfully. “Vivienne is known for her dealings and machinations with the powerful. You have abruptly become one of those, little though the rest of Val Royeaux would admit it.” 

I sighed. “Then if one of her guests asks?” 

“‘The Inquisition is doing all that it can to resolve the matter,’” she recited. 

“I still say that’s a ridiculous response,” I countered. “We aren’t talking about high tea at some noble’s estate where the despair-flavored fish has run out.”

“Ham,” Leliana corrected.

Cassandra sighed. “Nevertheless, this is an important occasion. Not even I would ignore an invitation to one of First Enchanter Vivienne’s salons.” She bent her head to look down at her own doublet, brushing at an invisible smudge irritably.

Leliana rested her hands on her hips. “Fenris… do you understand what ‘coy’ is?”

“Fasta vass,” I muttered, shifting uncomfortably under the dress attire. “Right now, I’m not sure I understand what ‘breathing’ is. Are all the clothes this ridiculous? I look like a formal chicken.”

“Maker preserve us,” Cullen breathed, rubbing his hand over his face. I couldn’t tell if he was with me or against me anymore. Cassandra stalked off, saying something about going to light a candle. 

~ ~ ~ ~

The final insult was the suggestion about my hair. It had grown enough in the years since the Chantry explosion that it had sufficient length to tie back - more than enough, as it was down to my shoulders. I simply never bothered; I had never cared for that half-tied-back look, and tails made my scalp ache. I just parted it to one side and tucked it behind my ear. 

When Josephine came to me in my room in Val Royeaux and held up the scissors, I stayed her with an upraised hand and put my back to the wall.

“No.”

“But the current fashion is -”

“No.” 

She sighed, pouting a little, then set the scissors down. “Very well. But at least let me use a thong to tie it back.” 

I narrowed my eyes at her. “Why was that so easy?” 

Josephine held my gaze a moment, then dropped it. “My dear ser, Varric only suggested that it would be the easiest way to get you to allow me to style your hair…” 

“He what?”

“That is - he knows you best, so… the negotiation was meant to move from scissors to tying back.” Her discomfort was palpable; where had the polished diplomat gone? When I continued to say nothing, only folded my arms over my chest, she finished, “You would look very dashing if you allowed me to put a style to it.” 

I tilted my chin up in defiance. “You could have just said that.” 

Josephine seemed to think on it a moment before she nodded, spinning her hand in a circle so that I would turn my back to her. “Your dwarf, he is very persuasive.” 

Sighing, I agreed, “If you have a suggestion about that, I’ll take it.” I turned to present her with my back.

When I exited my room, I was in finely-cut formal wear and dancing shoes with my hair braided from the deeper side of the part and tied at the back of my head. I had a new appreciation for how difficult it was to become insufferable. Varric snorted as he took in my appearance.

“What?” I demanded, feeling surly at the remaking of my entire persona. 

“Messere, you clean up real good,” he said with a grin. “Don’t blame Ruffles for the hair.” 

“Oh, believe me,” I muttered darkly. “I don’t.” 

~ ~ ~ ~

I could scarcely believe what I was seeing as I stared around myself in the foyer of Vivienne’s mansion. Nothing among the instruction that the advisors had given me could have prepared me for the gross spectacle of it all - though my time at Danarius’ side had, to an extent. It might almost have been enough to drive me into a state of panic were it not for the fact that the pageantry was not _quite_ what it had been in Tevinter. Here, there was a column wrapped in gold silk, there, a sterling fountain of sparkling wine. In Minrathous, the accents had not been gold or silver, but red. Everything bled there, from columns to slaves.

Yes, it was actually quite similar to the high-ranking magisters’ parties in Minrathous, right down to the overreaching and very dead noble at my feet.

“Do forgive me for allowing the Marquis to spoil your entrance, my dear,” de Fer said in her crisp, cultured accent as she gently steered me away from the iced-over body and toward a flight of stairs. “I assure you, nothing of the sort will happen again.” She led me to a bank of open windows overlooking the moonlit city and breathed in the cool air. 

I kept my tone measured and genteel, not quite my own voice. Josephine had made it very clear that I was not to “use that grumble” when I talked. 

“I must ask, Lady Vivienne: why have you requested my presence?” I resisted the urge to suggest she might have preferred the spymaster or the diplomat over the uncultured elf; Leliana had reminded me that any sign of weakness - including self-deprecation if it was not absolutely well-placed - would have them circling like vultures.

“I brought you here because the Inquisition is a rising power that can stabilize the unrest within - and without - the Chantry. As the leader of the last loyal mages of Thedas, I feel it only right that I lend my assistance to your cause.” 

Ah. There it was. 

I kept my expression bland, though it took every ounce of decorum in me. She was what Sebastian might have been had he had magic (though that was unfair to her; she clearly had a strength of will that he lacked). She looked to be a terrible combination: a social-climbing, Chantry-loyal zealot who could freeze people in their tracks. Her magic was _sanctioned._

I felt as though I’d been thrown to the dogs without any preparation at all. Dancing, yes; food, certainly. But “let me join you”? What was I expected to do with that? - but even as I asked the question in my mind, I knew the answer. I could only imagine what their reactions would be if I denied her. Still, that wasn’t the only reason to accept her offer. Pressure from the Inquisition aside, she was a powerful mage with high connections - another bad combination. 

Was my primary job to be mage-sitting?

Yet there was something about her. An aura, if I could call it that; it was a mantle of power that belied her delicate features and polite words. I had no doubt that the display with the Marquis was as much for my benefit as for the man’s poor, disappointed aunt.

I watched her closely and, remembering an encounter that Danarius had once had with a fellow magister, I chose my words with deliberate care. “Respectfully, Madame de Fer,” I began, and I was not particularly surprised that she cut me off with a graceful wave of her hand. 

“Vivienne. Please. And my dear, do you not find it to be true that when one begins a statement with ‘respectfully,’ what one is about to say is, indeed, quite irreverent?” Her smile was infuriatingly placid and did not reach her eyes. Their icy grey held mine from behind her ornate silver mask and clearly said, _Be very careful, darling._

I bowed my head briefly, a way of politely showing my belly, though I had gained the knowledge that I wanted. She needed me to feel as though I had been outplayed. I allowed my tone to lapse from the cultured ballroom timbre into my own matter-of-fact one. “Vivienne, it would be my pleasure to escort you to Haven myself.” 

Her gaze displayed her mild surprise; she shifted minutely, but only for an instant. The ice queen would be difficult to keep reined in, and that fact had nothing to do with her magic. This, too, was better served with her inside the Inquisition’s boundaries. Leliana would want to watch her.

“That is most gracious of you, Ser Fenris of the Inquisition. Do allow me to conclude my salon if you would, and then I will take my leave with you.” 

She turned to gesture, the cant of her hand indicating we should return to the party, and I held out my arm for her. Another small spark of surprise lit her eyes, and something else: she was mildly - grudgingly - impressed. I found myself feeling so, as well. Whatever else she may bring, I imagined Vivienne’s influence could carry the Inquisition far. 

She bent her head toward mine as though she were sharing a salacious bit of gossip. “I hope you do not find it impertinent of me that I have already packed my things.” 

“Not at all,” I replied, completely unsurprised.


	9. The Elfiest Elf and The Best Meeting Ever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While they're in Val Royeaux, Fenris and his away team head off to figure out what a Red Jenny is. That done, they return to Haven to discuss whether to go after the Templars at Therinfal or act on Leliana's intel on Redcliffe's mages. 
> 
> This chapter SFW
> 
> Song: “F**k Authority” / Pennywise / Sera (see end notes)

“Blah, blah, blah, ‘obey me, arrow in my face.’” She plucked her arrow out of his head, wincing at the slightly crunchy, squishy noise it made, then wiped it on the dead nobleman’s doublet before sliding it back into her quiver.

I stared at the elf - another strange one - completely perplexed. She was tiny and blonde; her clothing looked as though three different people had pieced it together, and her hair looked as though she’d cut it herself with a none-too-sharp knife. When she straightened and got her first clear look at me, she immediately radiated disgust. “Annnnd you’re an elf.” 

“So are you,” I pointed out and spread my hands, waiting.

“Just hopin’ you’re not too elfy.” She looked me up and down, the little crinkle between her brows deepening.

“Is now a bad time for me to point out the fact that your scowls match?” Varric asked.

That made me laugh. Varric actually grunted in surprise at the sound. 

Still grinning, I told her, “I’ve met humans elfier than I am and wanted to punch them every time.” 

Her own giggle came out as a quick, unselfconscious staccato. She was clearly no cultivated social butterfly, and for the first time since we’d entered Val Royeaux, I relaxed a little. 

“Wow!” she exclaimed. “Threw ‘em right under the cart, didn’ya? But the important thing is you glow. You’re the Herald thingy.” 

“No.” At her puzzled look, I amended, “People call me that, but I’m not a Herald of anything, certainly not Andraste.” 

Cassandra made a disappointed grunt. “I wish you would stop saying it that way. I know you are trying to be humble, but it sounds as though you find the notion asinine.”

_Call a spade a spade,_ I thought, but I kept my words to myself. 

“The reason your people want to call him that,” Solas said loftily, “is because of the vision of the woman behind him in the Fade. There’s no way to know who or what she was. The explosion could have been completely unrelated to anything Andrastian.” 

“So you say,” Cassandra replied, “but all we have to go on is what we have seen. There is no reason not to think there was some anti-Andrastian sentiment involved.”

“Or anti-mage sentiment,” he argued.

The elfling let out a growl that sounded vaguely like a cat being stepped on. “Whatever then, you lot, with your mages and your Andrastical - forget that and listen, not-Herald. My people said the Inquisition should look into this idiot.” She pointed at the dead Orlesian noble.

“Your people?” I asked. What I was thinking didn’t seem like the correct question, but I’d heard it so many blasted times before that I asked it anyway: “...Elves?” 

She scoffed. “No, _people_ people.” Glancing around, she added quickly, “Name’s Sera. This,” and she turned to a stack of crates, “is cover. Get round it.” When I stared some more, dumbfounded, she said impatiently, “For the reinforcements!” 

I haltingly drew my sword. Was it possible she was stranger than Solas? Or perhaps just insane?

“Don’t worry,” Sera went on, “They’ve got no breeches!” She cackled gleefully.

Between her bizarre turns of phrase and the casual skill with which she shot people, laughing whenever she caught sight of an arse (or a pair of “plums”), I believed myself to be in one of the strangest battles I’d ever experienced. At the end of it, as she collected up the arrows that weren’t broken (or too disgusting, by her own standards, to be salvaged), she approached me, openly sizing me up.

I sheathed my greatsword and gazed down at her, returning the favor. “You’re… very strange.” 

“Says the one who’s got a lot more glowy happening than anybody reckoned,” Sera retorted as she studied what of my tattoos she could see. She watched me expectantly a moment, and when I didn’t respond, she muttered, “Fine. Ply you with liquor and get _that_ story out, see if I don’t. Not-Herald.” 

“His name,” Cassandra cut in, “if you care to use it, is Fenris.” 

“Eeugh! Sounds like you’d see a healer for that. ‘Have ya got a salve or somethin’, I’ve got a fenris on my -’”

She looked at Varric, who was making a cutting stop-it gesture across his throat.

Seeming to relent, Sera shrugged at me. “Fine. Am I comin’ along or not? I’d like to join.” 

“That depends on what you can bring to us,” I pointed out. 

“I already said ‘people!’ Red Jenny. We do things to tits who really just want things done _for_ ‘em.”

She explained a lengthy chain of events: favors, pranks, thefts, miscellaneous other crimes. They ranged from slightly offsetting the balance of a dinner table to almost killing someone with a sack of tea and a water spigot. I could see it coming together in my mind: a network of tiny events orchestrated just so they looked random, but if concentrated could be played to great effect. 

“Spies, criminals, and jokesters?” Varric chuckled. “Sounds like Tuesday at the Hanged Man.” 

“It does.” I examined her, this not-elfy elf, and decided I liked her. She was a good shot - and as Hawke would have said, a straight shooter, and those were two very useful traits.

“Ey,” she warned, brow furrowing, “don’t see a need for those eyes like that on me, yeah? You’re not my type, so let’s get that good and gone.” 

“I wasn’t,” I corrected her. “Just thinking. Never mind.” 

“Just so we’re crystal, you’re not my type, either,” she said to Varric, “and neither are you, ugh,” to Solas, mimicking a shudder. Then she looked at Cassandra, considered, and decided, “Nah, your smalls are spilling _over_ with starch.”

We made our way out of the courtyard and into the streets, and Sera said, “So, what is that crossbow, there? - sexy, by the way, bet it’s got a nice bit of _umph_ to it, hm?” The grunt was emphasized by a little thrust of hips.

“I’m Varric,” the dwarf replied, and he held his crossbow aloft for her to examine. “This is Bianca.” 

“Bianca! Well!” Sera turned toward him as she walked and studied the weapon, reaching for it as though she were about to caress it. “ _She_ may be my type.” 

Varric immediately put Bianca on his back. “Been down that road once. She doesn’t swing that way.” 

I nodded knowingly. “Isabela?” 

“Eyup.” 

“What? Who’s Isabela? What happened, then?” Sera demanded. She had trotted ahead and was looking back and forth between us, walking backward.

Varric shook his head. “That’s the second story I’ll never tell.”

~ ~ ~ ~

“Fenris,” Leliana called as I ascended the steps of the Chantry. When I turned to her, she approached with a report. “We have word out of Redcliffe from our scouts. The situation is… not as we expected.” 

I didn’t look at the report. I watched her watching me and said, “Get everyone to the war table. I want to discuss it.”

“I do not see the need to include everyone in a tactical -”

“Please,” I said firmly. It was not a request.

To my surprise, she nodded. “Very well. Sera, too?” 

“Yes.” 

She nodded, expression neutral, and went to bring everyone in. It answered the question that she never would, at least not directly. Every new test I threw at her, at Cassandra, at Cullen, was met with the same reality: I had been propped up as the leader here, and there was no getting out of it.

Sera, for herself, declined the invitation. She met me just inside the Chantry and said, outraged, “I’m not hob-nobbin’ at your battle furniture. Lionpants won’t have me playin’ with the figures and gets all...” She made a frustrated, sneering growl, spun on her heel and stormed away, heading toward the little tavern and muttering about doing something to Cullen’s mane.

Everyone else seemed happy enough to be consulted, except for Varric. “I’ll sit there and look good,” he told me, “but I don’t have anything to say about how to handle mages. You’re on your own.” 

It was enough. In the end, I had Cullen, Josephine, Leliana, Varric, Solas, Cassandra, and Vivienne seated around the war table, all looking at me expectantly. 

“Leliana received word from Redcliffe.” I gestured for her to begin. 

“In spite of the invitation extended to the Inquisition by First Enchanter Fiona, our scouts are reporting that there has been no word of that spreading in the village. In fact…” She paused, shuffling through the pages as if verifying their contents. 

“It appears that the mages have already made an alliance.” There was a dark undertone to her words.

“With whom?” Josephine asked, surprised.

Leliana set the pages down. “Tevinter.” 

The gasps around the table echoed my own shock. “Do they have any idea what that means?” I demanded, and she wordlessly handed over the report. I pushed it back at her. “Summarize it.” 

“There are rumors about the magister - his name is Gareon Alexius - tying himself to a Tevinter supremacist faction. We do not know by what great coincidence he managed to coerce the mages only days after the Temple of Sacred Ashes fell; somehow, he just happened to be in Redcliffe. Perhaps he was there even as Fiona was approaching us in Val Royeaux. We’ve had no word from the Arl of Redcliffe - or Denerim, for that matter, about a foreign power in its heartlands - and that is very strange. It’s as if no one knows Alexius is there.

“What we have gleaned is that Fiona’s rebels have indentured themselves to the Magisterium as a way to protect themselves from the rogue Templars.” 

The table was suddenly in an uproar. “What are they thinking?” “Does Tevinter have leverage?” “How does the Imperium benefit?” Questions rose and then fell as no answers were forthcoming. 

“That settles what I was already considering,” I said. “We seek the aid of the Templars. We have no use for Tevinter-allied -”

“We should be utilizing the strength of the mages,” Solas interjected, leaning forward with a scowl. “The unknowns are too great, and only magic can perform such - ”

“I disagree,” Cullen cut in. “We need Templars who can _counteract_ magic.” 

Cassandra nodded in Cullen’s direction. “Exactly. We need the ability to block the power - ”

“What kind of power?” Leliana demanded. “The fact is that we do not know what we’re dealing with.”

“Enough.” I slammed my unmarked hand down on the surface of the table. “We’re calling on the Templars. If this Inquisition is meant to outweigh the existing factions, then we need to collar the Lord Seeker and get him back in line. The mages are lost to us, and good riddance if they’re leaving us for Tevinter.”

Solas sighed heavily. “We _need_ to help the mages -”

“First we need their strength, then we need to help them? Make up your mind.” As his frown deepened, I added, “Never mind; this is not up for discussion. They’ve made their bed, and any group willing to ally itself with Tevinter deserves what it gets.”

Solas sat back as though I’d slapped him. “That is _wholly_ unfair,” he blustered. “They sought refuge -”

“Stop,” I snarled, making a cutting gesture with my hand and standing to lean over the table. “The mages voted to break from the Chantry to escape oppression, so the first thing they do is hide behind a magister’s skirts? That is the plainest idiocy I’ve ever seen, and I’ve met First Enchanter Orsino.” 

From beside me came a small, stifled chuckle. Varric. 

“And what would _you_ know about it?” Cassandra fired off at the dwarf. 

Varric cast Cassandra a sidelong look and shrugged, his expression placid enough to appear bored. “What, me? I’ve met Orsino, too.”

Cassandra looked about her as though she needed something to throw at Varric’s head. 

Solas simply would not stop. “This is completely different. This isn’t one man’s folly, it’s -” 

“A hundred people’s folly.” Cullen’s tone was quiet but firm, his face sad. “Ferelden, Kirkwall, and now the rebellion at large… the world is in chaos. Many mages will do what they must to obtain or keep power. Acquiescing to the Imperium must have benefits in the long run for those who are loyal to Fiona. They can justify the means for their ends later.” 

Ah, there it was: that bitterness from before. He’d said he’d been trying to be more open and understanding, but clearly, it was a hard road to walk. I didn’t blame him a bit. 

“Now, that’s a vast oversimplification.” Solas again, sitting back and turning his face away. He crossed his arms over his chest.

“It is not an oversimplification,” Vivienne bickered. “It is a fact. It is history. We must get the Templars so that we may begin to bring the mages back into the fold - safely, and with control.” 

I vaguely disliked that she was on my side. I saw her importance, but at the same time, I had no use for a mage who would ingratiate herself to the powers-that-be for the sake of her own status. Her love for the Chantry somehow did not ameliorate her coldness toward its charges - any of them.

“I said _enough._ ” I glanced between Solas and Vivienne, though by this point I was decidedly tired of everyone. “The Inquisition has left the decision to me, for whatever ridiculous reason, and I’ve made it.” I turned to Solas. “We seek out the Templars and secure their aid, and then if you want to cobble together the resources to purchase back several score mages who don’t even classify as laetans, be my guest. But don’t think their lack of rank within the castes will prevent the Magisterium from charging you their worth several times over.”

At that, Solas straightened and glared. “They are people!” 

“Not to the Imperium, they’re not: they are commodities, and until they’ve proven their value, they are little more than chattel. Your dislike of the situation does not force it into a more palatable circumstance. We’re not. Going. To Redcliffe.”

Everyone watched as Solas stood, his brow furrowed deeply. He stared down at the table, perhaps considering what to say, then simply turned and stalked out. 

There was a pause, as though everyone was giving Solas’ wake its due, and then Leliana carried on. 

“Scout Harding has sent us a report of the Storm Coast. The primary danger is a group calling themselves the Blades of Hessarian, while a secondary group - unknown as yet - is systematically taking out Tevinter zealots similar to the ones our contact mentioned in Redcliffe. We are working on determining the agendas of these factions...”


	10. Definitely Not Duncan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leliana has requested Fenris and the others go find a lone Grey Warden in the Hinterlands. Blackwall is... well, he's certainly not what Fenris hoped for.
> 
> This chapter SFW. 
> 
> Short chapter, but bonus song: “A Beautiful Lie” / Thirty Seconds to Mars / Blackwall. Alternately, “Terrible Lie” / NIN / same; YMMV

“Several months ago, the Grey Wardens of Ferelden vanished,” Leliana said quietly as I approached her. There was a deep concern to her tone, something that I hadn’t heard before in spite of the gravity of some of the information she’d had to pass along. “I sent word to those in Orlais, but they have also disappeared.” 

I nodded, watching her; her distress was evident. This had struck home. 

“Ordinarily, I wouldn’t even consider the idea that they’re involved in all this, but the timing is… curious.” 

I agreed; it was strange. “Didn’t you know the Hero of Ferelden?” 

“Yes,” Leliana said, a bit surprised. “He is now the Warden-Commander, and it…” She swallowed, at once looking both distressed and vulnerable. “It is very worrisome. I cannot allow myself to believe the Grey Wardens are part of this.” 

I couldn’t blame her. The closest comparison I could come to the Wardens having something to do with the death of Justinia was the idea of Hawke having been complicit in the explosion of Kirkwall’s Chantry. The thought was exactly as unpleasant then as it had been the first time I’d conceived of it.

“What’s come up?” I prompted gently. 

“Two days ago, my agents in the Hinterlands heard news of a Grey Warden by the name of Blackwall. Please seek him out. Perhaps he can put my mind at ease.”

I did not want to discover what her thoughts might have been if he couldn’t. 

~ ~ ~ ~

He couldn’t. 

It was a fine day, at least; the sun shone, and the breeze wasn’t enough to take away all of the warmth. We avoided the shade, and the paths were clear. We’d long since routed out most of the dangers in the area, and the Hinterlands had begun to settle into a routine again. Villages were trading once more. It was good to see. 

We’d approached a small fishing shack off a tiny dock in Lake Luthias. I knew only a little of the habits of the Wardens, but I assumed that if he was operating alone, he might have been acting as a recruiter or scout. In that case, it might be safer and more fruitful for him to seek shelter in villages or even lone homes in the wilderness rather than camp. It was decent speculation, I thought, based on some of the stories Hawke had helped me read. 

There stood a burly man, armed and armored, instructing a half-dozen men he referred to as “conscripts” in basic fighting techniques. A recruiter, then. I had heard of exactly one: a man named Duncan. By all accounts, he’d been an esteemed and honorable man who had died at the Battle of Ostagar. If this one shared his rank or even close to it, then we might have found a real lead.

I waited until he caught sight of us and stopped talking. “Warden Blackwall?” I greeted. 

I was met with frank surprise and then veiled hostility. “How do you know that name?” he demanded, then blocked an arrow bound for my head. “That’s it - help or get out. We’re dealing with these idiots first.” 

To my surprise, we found ourselves in a pitched melee fight. Whoever these enemies were, they were amateurs, dispatched quickly - in spite of the fact that Blackwall talked the entire time. 

“Hold the wall, men! Make them come to me!” he shouted. I had to wonder: were Grey Wardens not trained in avoiding projecting fight tactics to the entire field? Immediately one of our foes indeed turned to face him and was shield-bashed for his effort. 

“You’re dead, bastard! Dead!” one of the bandits yelled. 

“I wasn’t here to fight! Stop and think!” Blackwall replied, and even as I ran one of them through, I had to wonder further if lecturing the criminals worked in his favor very often. I remembered Varric offering to pen for Aveline a sign that said “DON’T.”

“Too late for that! You know how this ends.” That one lunged toward me.

“Oh, for the love of - stop _talking_!” I spun, the unnatural connection between lyrium and mark giving me the speed and power to leave his two halves twitching on the ground.

I wiped a spray of blood from my forehead as the last bandit fell. Blackwall walked away from his own last kill, skewering his bloody sword into the dirt before crouching down beside one of the fallen bandits. He looked… regretful? 

The breeze picked up over the lake, bringing with it the scent of stale water and the greenish-floral note of blood lotus. He inhaled deeply, then stood and faced me. 

“You’re no farmer. How do you know my name? Who are you?” 

“I’ve been called a lot of things of late,” I muttered dryly, and his hostility came to mind again. I had heard it said that many Wardens were criminals with unmistakable skills, so perhaps this one resented his new life. Or perhaps he was just generally irritable.

Cassandra stepped forward. “We are with the Inquisition. We are looking for answers as to the destruction of the Conclave and the death of the Divine - and the very conspicuous disappearance of the Wardens.”

Blackwall’s eyes narrowed. “The Wardens and the Divine - no. But you’re asking, so you really don’t know.” He approached me, openly sizing me up; perhaps he’d rather not fight an experienced warrior with a shield and good armor that declared herself a Seeker, but he looked ready to try and take me. I squared my stance. 

“No Warden killed the Divine. Our purpose isn’t political or religious.” 

I hiked up an eyebrow. “And you know every Warden? No spies, no political inclinations among your members?” I glanced at his conscripts; they were shifting in their armor and looking very uncomfortable, glancing around at the bodies in the grass.

At that, Blackwall waved a hand to dismiss them. “Take back what they stole,” he ordered them. “Go back to your families.” They all but scrambled to do as they were told. 

“That’s a very inefficient recruiting method,” I observed, unable to curtail my mocking tone. 

“We’re not in a Blight,” he turned and growled back at me, and Cassandra got between us. 

“We only want to know where the rest of you are. Can you tell us anything?” She tilted her head to catch his gaze, trying to distract him from me. Something about him rubbed me wrong; Varric would likely say that was just me being prickly.

He finally met her gaze. “I haven’t seen another Warden in months. I travel alone. We’re ten years past the Blight, so I don’t need recruits now - but they didn’t know that.” He tipped his chin in the direction his soldiers had gone. “I ‘conscripted’ them to teach them to stand. Grey Wardens… they can inspire. Make you better than you think you are.” His tone had taken on a solemnity that smacked of theatrics.

“Inspiring ideological nonsense,” I sighed, thinking that was a lot of talking to get out a “no.” “We’re no further ahead than we were.” 

I gestured toward the road, and Cassandra, Varric, Solas and I turned to go.

“Inquisition,” Blackwall said. “Agent. Hold a moment.” 

I turned, skeptical, and waited.

“The sky is torn and the Divine is dead. Events like these - well, thinking we’re absent is almost as bad as thinking we’re involved. Maybe you need a Grey Warden. Maybe you need me.” 

There was that sense of drama again. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

“That sounds a little more like you needing us,” Varric said, mirroring my thoughts. 

“We may reach out, try to find his brothers-in-arms,” Cassandra suggested. “It is worth a try.” 

I held in an exasperated sigh. Apparently, we were picking up every stray along the side of the road. _This_ was a very inefficient recruiting method.

“Fine,” I told him. “Though I don’t see what good one Warden does.” 

“Save the fucking world, if pressed.” 

His tone grated on me, and I scoffed. “Hero of Ferelden? A pleasure to meet you.” 

“What good does one elf do, then?” he fired back.

I primed my lyrium, grimaced a little, and showed him my sparking palm. It wasn’t as much on fire as it would have been near a rift tear, but it drove the point home. “Seal the fucking Breach, if pressed.” 

If theatrics was what he wanted, I could deliver in kind. I'd spent almost a decade with Hawke, after all.

Blackwall’s eyes widened, and I had to relish my own sense of satisfaction. “I see. Well, you either need me or you don’t.” He shrugged, but he was watching me. He really did want to join us; it was all over him. 

I nodded grudgingly; Cassandra produced a map to Haven and gave it to him. 

“I know you’ll need to prepare yourself and pack your things,” I told him as we headed off. “Take your time,” I added. 

When we were out of earshot, I told Cassandra, “Something about him is off.” 

“You didn’t like Solas, either,” she pointed out. 

“Solas is a self-trained apostate with an uncanny lack of humility,” I explained. “Of course I don’t like him.”

“I can hear you,” Solas muttered.

I withdrew a small dagger from my belt and crouched to harvest some elfroot. Cassandra went on, “You didn’t like me, at first, either.” 

“Who says I do now?” I asked, tucking my blade away. At her indignant expression, I grinned. Varric and I exchanged amused looks.

Solas stopped, tilting his head at me. “Honestly, I don’t know why you ask me along since you feel so strongly antagonistic toward me.”

“Cullen insists on it,” I told him, and I could _feel_ Varric trying not to snicker, “because your barriers aren’t terrible.” 

“Perhaps I should teach Vivienne to cast a better barrier - then you need not bear my presence.” 

I spotted more elfroot and stopped to collect it. “You can try to teach Vivienne,” I corrected him. “I’ll lay gold that she would be affronted at the suggestion she could gain any knowledge of barriers - or anything - from a wandering, unwashed apostate.” 

“You are insufferable.” Solas turned away and muttered something in elven, then began to walk, intent upon leaving us behind. 

Varric rolled his eyes. “Broody, it’s starting to look like you and he need to go ahead and get a room.” 

I made Cassandra’s noise.


	11. No, We Are Not Killing That Dragon Right Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A stranger arrives at the Inquisition's Chantry - Cremisius Aclassi - and Fenris and his party head for the Storm Coast. There, they discover Bull and his Chargers, and Fenris makes a useful - and disturbing - discovery of his own.
> 
> This chapter SFW with some violence.
> 
> I have to take a minute to crow about my primary beta, [CuriousThimble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CuriousThimble/pseuds/CuriousThimble). She has been encouraging and helpful when I've struggled with my own perception of the work. Hug your betas, y'all.
> 
> Song is “Heathens” / Twenty-One Pilots / Bull and the Chargers (see end notes)

Leaving the Chantry, I nearly plowed into a lost-looking soldier. Not an agent of the Inquisition, no; his uniform was that of a Free Marcher. The crest on his chest reminded me a bit of Kirkwall’s, but then I supposed all of the city-states had variations on a theme. Aveline telling Seneschal Bran to stuff and mount the Viscount’s parade armor came to my mind unbidden, and I felt a pang of wistfulness for our Guard Captain and for Kirkwall. Had things really been simpler then, or was this just a different kind of chaos?

When the soldier spoke, his voice had a… different quality to it. I couldn’t quite place it, but it wasn’t important what he sounded like. He was polite and professional, recommending that I head to the Storm Coast to see the mercenary company he belonged to - and why not? Even though I apparently led from the war table, everyone else in the operation was telling the “Herald” what to do. It was Hawke all over again. 

I ruthlessly shoved the thought of him from my mind.

Still, I found myself intrigued by this offer. After all, we were heading to the Storm Coast anyway - and that realization sparked my memory of Leliana’s comment.

“Does your...group happen to be anti-Tevinter?” I asked him even as I realized he had a look about him…

“As much as we possibly can be, ser,” he replied, a little disgust in his voice. “For myself, I came from there - like you did - and would sooner die than go back.”

“What - how do you know me?” I demanded. That was hardly common knowledge outside of my inner circle - and not even _this_ one, but the Kirkwall one.

He tilted his head, watching me sidelong. “That’s for The Iron Bull to say. He’s the one with the information.” Then he shrugged, utterly casual. “That said, you are the Herald of Andraste. Everyone knows you to some degree.” He imbued the words with a tinge of sarcasm. Had I not been fluent in it, I might have missed it. It was vaguely refreshing.

So it was off with us to the Storm Coast.

It was strange to me, traveling so much without feeling bound to rush to a destination. Oh, there was an urgency in our missions to and from the Hinterlands and Val Royeaux, but I wasn’t running, and I wasn’t chasing. I was just _moving_. The distinction did something in my heart that I could not quite name. It gave me a small sense of pride in my actions that I had never known before.

When we arrived, I stood at our camp’s vantage point a long time, staring out over the Waking Sea. The wind blew my hair around my face, and I tucked it back absently. The water lashed against the stony shore more angrily than I had seen it do to the Wounded Coast, and there it was again - another thought for my Kirkwall home. I supposed it had been the closest I’d ever been to a true home that was mine (albeit an ironic one, given that the mansion had only belonged to me by right of possession). I had made friends there, and I had found love - unrequited though it had been, I would never have thought myself capable of it. 

Now I stood overlooking the very sea I had fled to when I’d decided to stop running and face the tiger. What had Hawke told me the witch had asked? Fate or chance? I was truly a free man now - or was I, given that I seemed to be leashed by the mark to the Inquisition?

And yet here I was: tethered, perhaps, following no one and everyone, and yet I knew I was finding my own path.

The thunder crashed, and I snapped back to myself to hear Varric saying, “...not really with us right now, is he? Broody? You in there?”

“Sorry,” I replied automatically, looking down at him, then Harding. “Woolgathering.” 

“Yeah, I can see that.” Varric handed me Harding’s report. “We have a Tevinter mage cult, darkspawn, this Blades of Hessarian group, and a dragon.” 

“Thank you, Varric,” Harding put in with an irritable sigh, “for rephrasing exactly what I just said.” 

Varric shrugged. “He wasn’t listening. I was trying to be helpful.” 

“Half of my work is scouting,” she reminded him. “The other half is reporting. Let me do my job, all right?” 

Raising his hands, Varric took a step back from her. “Sheesh. Fine.” He took the report back from me without another word and thrust it back at her.

I turned to Harding. “What about this group we’re supposed to meet?”

“They’re just down the hill to the beach,” she said, nodding in that direction. “It looks like they’ve set up camp there.” 

I was quickly learning that Harding’s sardonic briefings were accurate. This place was wet and dangerous, and that was nearly the sum total of it; all of the various details and groups translated simply to “bring weaponry.” Thunder grumbled in the clouds, and in counterpoint (or harmony, depending on whether you wanted to take Varric’s opinion that the region itself wanted to kill us), the dragon’s screech in the distance. 

That was vaguely surprising to me, though I supposed it shouldn’t have been. The only time I’d ever seen a dragon was in the Bone Pit, and I’d thought that had been enough for one lifetime. If the dragon population was on the rise, then naturally they’d seek desolate areas.

Why’d it have to be desolate areas where _we_ went? 

There was something surreal and beautiful about watching the Chargers as a company. Instead of immediately jumping into the fray, I found myself just staring for a moment. 

There was Krem. He had a stout shield and a thick longsword, and he knocked two arrows and a fireball aside before being joined by a narrow elf with a strange, curved staff shaped almost like a longbow. The elf volleyed back with a surge of electric energy, throwing the Venatori into the surf and killing him and two others who happened to be standing in the water when her bolt hit it. She stayed at Krem’s back, palm crackling as the crystal in her staff glowed warmly. 

The Qunari leader of this group, The Iron Bull, was tearing through Venatori with great, looping swings of his axe. From behind a beached ship, a dwarf was tossing little balls of explosives at the Venatori, and another elf, positioned next to him, was firing at them with his shortbow. His arrows were strange and squat, and then I realized they weren’t meant to hit people: they were specifically for detonating the explosives as they neared a target. I heard a scream as a Tevinter sellsword was treated to a faceful of fire, no mage required. Glorious.

The small, beachside battlefield was chaos, but I was not going to stand by and let the Chargers do all of the work. I leaped in, rolling under another lightning bolt to cut the legs out from under a Venatori mage, and as I stood, Varric shot an archer between the eyes. Cassandra charged one of the archers, deflecting arrows from the mage fighting beside Krem. Solas threw a barrier up which happened to catch me and Bull in it together, and as I stared around me, taking it all in, I could see exactly where everyone fit: had I thought it was chaos? No. It was a flowing river, steered here and there by a stone or a shift in the bank. The Chargers controlled the battlefield, and we’d slipped right in beside them. I beheaded a mage, Bull sliced his way through a reaver. Soon, the beach was littered with dead Tevinter zealots. 

By the end of it, our involvement felt like nothing more than a courtesy. An interview. Who had been sent to seek out whom?

Panting, I sheathed my greatsword. 

“Told you we’re the best,” Krem said a little smugly as I looked around me at the detritus of battle. He gave me a little salute.

“That you did,” I agreed. As Cassandra stalked around with the throatcutters to make sure the dead were truly dead, I turned to Bull. 

“Shit, and there you are,” he said, his voice rich and deep. He was studying me, taking in everything: my face, my marks, my sword, my bare feet (I was grateful to be out of snow, that was certain - I hated boots). “So - you’re with the Inquisition. C’mon. Have a seat. Drinks are coming.”

“Iron Bull?” I asked, moving to sit where he gestured. 

“Yeah. The horns usually give it away.” He tilted his head and swung them; I supposed that were he to be careless - or very careful - he could kill someone just that way.

I snorted lightly. Krem approached and greeted me, offered Bull a mission report, and then headed out to double-check the throat-cutters’ work. All very efficient. 

Bull was Ben-Hassrath, or claimed to be. When he asked me if I knew what that was, I explained: “The eyes, ears, and blade of the Qun.” If it was a test, then he didn’t know as much about me as a Ben-Hassrath agent should.

Bull watched me appraisingly. “Yeah. That’s right.” His tone was thoughtful. “That going to be a problem? I’ll be reporting back, but you’ll be getting information, too. Mutually beneficial.” His gaze traveled over my frame again, his expression unreadable.

“Sounds fine,” I said, looking up the coastline. There was nothing the Inquisition was doing that should alarm the Ben-Hassrath, at least not that I knew of. Still, the amassing of power could be cause for anyone’s concern. Were I outside this organization looking in, I might have wondered myself.

“Good. You won’t regret it. My Chargers are the best - we’re worth every silver.” Krem arrived bearing skins, both of them heavy with ale. He handed one to me, then Bull. I nodded in thanks. 

“I can see that,” I told Bull. “You made short work of those Venatori. I barely wet my blade.” 

Bull preened a bit, then spit on the ground. “Fuckin’ Vints. Don’t know what they’re doing here, but it can’t be good. Now what about you?” 

I blinked at the abrupt change in topic, taking a drink to cover my surprise. “Excuse me?”

“Krem told me he mentioned it. We know you came out of Tevinter years back - before the whole Kirkwall disaster. You got loyalties there?” 

The wind picked up, and it felt good on my heated skin. I looked gratefully into the sky. “I am the former slave of a dead Magister. I believe that should tell you everything you need to know - though I’m assuming you already did.” 

Bull grunted thoughtfully. “Just checking. What we know and what people say don’t always match up.” 

“I can only imagine.” I had to wonder how he’d gotten that information, though I supposed there might have been chatty witnesses the night Danarius had confronted us in the Hanged Man.

“Still. Someone helped you, right?” Bull drank deeply, sighing and swiping at his mouth with his wrist. He was watching me curiously. His casual questions seemed… almost too casual, in spite of the fact that they were relatively probing given that we’d just met. For Ben-Hassrath, he didn’t have a lot of subtlety.

“When I escaped? No; there was no one who - well.” My regret over the Fog Warriors I’d betrayed still lingered, but Bull did not need that story now. “No one helped me. Besides, I did not leave from Tevinter. We were on Seheron.”

Another soft grunt. I took a pull at my ale as he asked, “When were you there?” 

“I was abandoned there by my master. He came to reclaim me and - I left in 9:28.” 

“Interesting. I was just there in ‘31. Fog warriors give you hell, too?” 

I shook my head, and his eyes widened. “They were my salvation, actually.” 

He chuckled, to my surprise. “Damn. Now I feel conflicted about killing so many of ‘em.” He didn’t sound conflicted, but I was already learning that interactions with him were going to involve a lot more than met the eye.

When the rain began, our small party and the Chargers climbed the rocky slope to the camp, where Harding had set up a lean-to of canvas and thick poles against the cliffside. She’d managed to build the fire up despite the rain, and between her hunting skills and another agent’s skill with the kettke, there was a savory rabbit and mushroom stew to be had. 

“Harding, is it?” Bull said, taking a knee to shake her hand. “I haven’t had a hot meal in days. You’re a gift.” 

Harding let out a little laugh, tilting her head and watching him, and to be perfectly honest, I couldn’t tell if they were sizing each other up or flirting.

Spies. 

We ate and drank, the Chargers gleefully sharing stories of their time in Orlais while Harding and Varric competed over who had the most exciting history. The rain let up after a while, well after dark, but we remained around the fire, picking at the last of the stew and beginning to drowse. Some had taken to tents; the elf called Dalish climbed a tree. 

“Hey, Boss,” Bull said, turning to me as Cassandra recovered from a hilarious story about a giant and an idiot nobleman. “Did you hear it earlier? The dragon?” 

“Yes,” I replied, draining my aleskin. “Why?”

“Oh, I just wondered, you know. Maybe we should go check it out.” His tone was strangely casual, like a child trying to convince his parents to let him do something naughty.

“No,” I said simply, and when he frowned, I added, “Someday I’ll tell you about a place called the Bone Pit.” 

He opened his mouth, considered, and said, “Now _that_ sounds like a completely different kind of story than I was expecting.” 

I snorted out a laugh.

One by one, the last of the others retired to their pallets. The had cleared in patches to let the moon and a few stars shine through, and the air was clear and smelled of salt and pine. It seemed that, for whatever reason, neither Bull nor I were destined to sleep any time soon. 

As if he’d read my thoughts, he asked, “Wanna go for a walk?” 

I eyed him. “We’re not chasing after that dragon.” 

“No, no. I got a report that there are darkspawn nearby - there are caves all over in the basalt, you know. Might find something fun or valuable. Or worth killing.” He shrugged as though it were all the same to him. “Spiders, anyway. You can almost always guarantee spiders.” 

I considered it, then nodded. “What’s the worst that can happen?” I asked. 

Bull laughed. “When you say _that_ , I’m not sure I wanna go anymore.” 

But we did go. He strapped his axe back on, and I threw on a cloak and my greatsword. We let the agent on watch know that we’d be back before dawn, and if not, we were headed south. I pocketed some smoked rabbit, strapped healing vials to my belt alongside some poultices, then grabbed a tarred torch stick and water skins from the supply cache. Bull looked at me a little strangely, but I shrugged. “We don’t know what we’re going to run into,” I said simply, and after a hesitation, he nodded.

I poked my head into the tent Varric ended up sharing with two of the Chargers. “I’m hunting with Bull,” I told him as he blinked up at me, face bleary. 

“Okay,” he replied slowly. “Don’t let him assassinate you while you’re staring at your weird hand or something.” 

I laughed quietly. “You could always come with me. Watch my back.” 

“I think you’ll be okay, Broody.” He turned over, and I could see one naked shoulder as he twisted in his pallet. That was more than I needed to know about how Varric slept.

“We good?” Bull asked as we began the trek down to the shore.

“Yes, provided you aren’t taking this opportunity to kill me,” I deadpanned. 

He shrugged one shoulder. “If I wanted to do that, you’d be dead already.” 

It was true, I supposed.

We picked our way down the gravelly slope and toward where the rocks mellowed to sand. His map was more complete than Harding’s, and it showed several caves that might have been inhabited. We chose the one nearest to camp, down along the shore tucked into one of the many basalt cliffs. 

“So,” Bull began as we carefully picked our way toward the cave, “how’d you get mixed up in all this?” 

I sighed inwardly. “I have no idea,” I muttered, and at his puzzled look, I clarified, “I was sent in as a Templar alongside the Champion of Kirkwall. He was meant to explain the Kirkwall Chantry explosion to the Divine at the Temple; I was just there to watch his back. He didn’t survive the blast.” 

And when I heard myself put it that way, I was less crazy than usual about my role in everything. 

“And how did you?” Bull asked, incredulity in his voice. 

“I was in the Fade, apparently.” 

We walked a moment in silence, nothing between us but the breeze and the crash of waves to our left. 

“No shit,” he murmured at last. 

“No shit,” I agreed. “Why? What did you hear?” 

“That you were in the Fade, yeah.” Suddenly, the indomitable mountain of Qunari sounded uncertain. “But for us, someone has a bad dream and we’re trying to bind their magic. I had no idea it wasn’t rampant exaggeration.”

“I still don’t know that it’s not.” We had found the mouth of the cave, and I pulled the branch from a loop on my belt and sat for a minute, propping the branch up between my knees so I could strike a spark to it with a pair of flints.

“Why? You think you imagined it?” 

“No. I don’t remember any of it.” Torch lit, I stood again, brandishing it in front of me so we could enter the cave. 

“Then you think people are lying to you?” 

“Not necessarily.” I swept the fire in front of me, letting my vision adjust to the darkness. Even inside the cave, water shimmered against nearly every surface. “An entire contingent of guards saw me fall out of a hole in the air. They also saw a woman behind me - a woman that everyone assumes to be Andraste. I can’t explain it, but I can’t dismiss it all as tall tales.” 

I didn’t turn to look at him - that would have involved swinging the torch around and making it obvious that I was studying his reaction - but he was silent again for a few minutes. I remained quiet, too, and chose to follow the cave wall; at least that way danger could only come at us from one direction.

“You know, for once,” Bull sighed, “I really wanted the reports to be wrong.” 

“I’m sure,” I replied heavily. “I keep hoping I’ll wake up on Varric’s floor in the Hanged Man with a -”

“Shh.” Bull had gone completely still and had turned to peer down the bend in the cave; his fist was raised in a military-style halting gesture. 

My skin prickled. I couldn’t hear the hissing shuffle as much as I could _feel_ it in the dark, the humid air suddenly thick with the warmth of life. Slowly, carefully, Bull drew his greataxe as I looked for a place to lay the torch. 

Abruptly, they were on us: two spiders bigger than Luno and a small swarm of deepstalkers. They were fighting each other almost as much as they fought us, and the deepstalkers were lithe and difficult to hit. Bull knocked a spider into the nearest wall; it made a sickening noise like someone dropping entrails onto the ground before it went still. I skewered the other spider, then went to work on the deepstalkers only to find that their attack cries were drawing more of their kind out of the crevices. 

Suddenly it seemed as though there were dozens of them, and I felt a moment of panic as I wondered if this was how the famous Herald of Andraste would die: badly, to the tune of deepstalker screeches. 

Without meaning to, I primed my lyrium marks and charged a small cluster of them, lowering my stance and scything my way through. The rest of the battle went past in a blur as I slipped around Bull, cutting into seeming clouds of the slithery bastards. I finally stopped, panting in the pale light that the marks created and looking around at the piles of bodies. 

Then I remembered Bull and turned to find him staring at me. His slack-faced shock was illuminated in my lyrium glow. 

“Uh. Boss. What the _fuck_ is that?” 

I felt my face heating as the lyrium calmed itself. “It’s a long story,” I muttered, “one which you should already know, given your… affiliations.”

“Herald of Andraste,” Bull said, emphasizing the title, “I have no idea how that slipped our reports, but I am all ears and I have _nothing_ but time right now.”

 

I grimaced, watching him carefully. “Fine. But I don’t necessarily need this getting back to the Ben-Hassrath if they don’t have it already. It has nothing to do with the Inquisition.” _Yet,_ I thought, resisting the urge to look down through the inky dimness at my wrist, where the green had begun climbing into the white like tiny vines of ivy. 

“Want to clear this cave out first, or…?” Bull asked, but he was already edging back toward the cold moonlight at the maw. 

I turned to look at him, his massive frame more of a sense than a silhouette, and I dispelled the spooky feeling of it as I took up the torch. “We’ve already started here. I’ll tell you as we go.” 

We continued on. It amazed me how wet the inside of the cave remained, no matter how deep we seemed to go. It was as though the basalt had absorbed the water from the pounding rain on the outside and now simply exuded it on the inside. It was not a pleasant thought. 

I told Bull my story, feeling vaguely foolish simply because I thought that the Ben-Hassrath should have known everything I was saying. More spiders came through the tunnels at us alongside deepstalkers chittering and crawling over one another. We hacked and pounded our way through them. I explained my slavery, my forgotten childhood, the marks. Bull dismembered a deepstalker matriarch. I detailed how Hawke had enabled me to defeat Danarius, how my sister had told me that I’d requested these very marks and even fought for them. We cut down what we believed to be the spider queen. I described in luxurious detail how Hawke put an arrow in Danarius’ chest, one in his flank, and then had stomped Danarius’ head into the Hanged Man’s floor while I’d stood over him, panting, blood-spattered, vindicated at last. 

It had been the finest, most glorious gesture of friendship anyone had ever given me. 

The waves of creatures had finally stopped, and I realized Bull was looking at me closely. We’d routed what seemed to be the last mingled herd of deep dwellers, and I was glowing again, reveling in the memory. 

“Yup, that sounds pretty romantic, Boss.” 

“That’s not what I meant,” I muttered, clearing my throat.

“Sure it isn’t.” Bull took up the torch and struck it alight again (it had been knocked from his hand or mine on multiple occasions). “But what’s happening there? Why am I getting the feeling this is new?” He indicated my whole person with a gesture of his huge hand. 

I looked down at my marks, glowing through my leather and making themselves seen at the edges of my plate. “It happens when my blood quickens in battle or excitement,” I began, but he clearly didn’t buy it, or at least knew that there was more to it. I thought about how I’d spun through the initial herd of deepstalkers as though their movements had been slowed, and I shook my head. “The mark… I think it’s doing something to my lyrium.” 

Bull grunted unhappily. “That sounds bad.” 

Yes. Yes, it did.


	12. And Me Without a Rumwitch’s Wanderlust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One snowy night in Haven, Fenris receives a wholly unexpected visitor.
> 
> This chapter SFW.
> 
> Song: “Nightmare” / Halsey / Galvora (see end notes)

There came a tap at my door, brisk and firm. When I answered, Leliana was there, and to her left - 

“Galvora?” I was stunned to see her; Luno was overjoyed. He bounded to her and I could see him vibrating as he resisted the urge to pounce her. He’d have driven her into the snow and then would have had to dig her out again.

“She simply appeared at the gate,” Leliana explained, indicating the compact, fur-covered woman hugging my dog. “She said you would remember her from the tavern.” Tilting her head, Leliana asked, “The Hanged Man?” 

“No,” I chuckled. “We were in Ostwick - on our way to Antiva, actually. I’ll explain it later.” I wondered that the spymaster hadn’t had eyes on us at that time, or perhaps she’d lost track for a few days. It hardly mattered. “Come in, Galvora.”

Leliana looked at me over her shoulder as she walked away, clearly a bit miffed; I supposed it was because she was unused to not knowing everything about everything.

“You were a real bitch to find,” Galvora admitted as she entered. First, she dropped a massive, rattling ruck sack; leather thongs hung from it, holding two canteens, a bronze mug, an extra pair of boots, and several other mismatched parcels. Snow scattered everywhere as it hit the floor. She then stripped off thick mittens to reveal thin, fingerless gloves before removing her fur-lined cloak. Her accent had gone from upper Orzammar to a decidedly Free Marcher tone, and she wasn’t even using the same dialect.

“I’m… sorry?” I replied, unsure if I was apologizing or asking for clarification.

“No worries. I was mostly looking for your dark-haired friend. Sorry to hear about that, by the way.” Galvora immediately started to wander around, opening drawers and cabinets. She found a parcel of tea leaves and went to the kettle to hang it over the fire. 

“I…” Unable to help it, I simply stared as she cased my little hut, making herself completely at home. Luno even pointed out the honeypot with a scratch at the cabinet door, and she thanked him with a pat on the shoulder.

“May I ask... what…?” I tried again. I had spent a lot of days in confusion; I should have been used to it.

“What?” she asked, turning to look over her shoulder at me as she filled the kettle from a pitcher on the windowsill. “Oh. Sorry. I decided running a tavern in Ostwick wasn’t nearly as exciting as all this.” Once she got the kettle on, she turned to face me. “This is all right, isn’t it? I have a few skills beyond curating the best selection of three liquors in the Mid-Quarter of Ostwick. I want to help.” 

I blurted out a small laugh as I sank onto the edge of my bed. “Of course - I mean, it’s fine, and thank you, but - how did you find me?” 

She stared at me, her piercing blue eyes sparking in her brown face. Her hair was scraped back into a braid, which she began to untwist as she made alternately happy and irritated noises. 

“There is news, you know. People use birds, and even caravans can make good time if need be - ‘White-Scarred Elf Declared the Herald of Andraste’ was what one of the criers was shouting. How many white-scarred elves could there be in this part of the world?”

Galvora now looked as though she’d lived here forever: hair streaming down her back, nimble fingers measuring tea leaves and pouring hot water. “I’m starving,” she added over her shoulder, and I hopped up as though she’d given me an order. Something about her commanded attention and respect, and strangely enough, I was happy to give them to her. Luno was, too; he went to a small cabinet to remind me where the last of the dried hare and herbs had been stored.

“Give it here. D’you have a second pot?” 

I floundered for a moment, glancing around - I almost never used it - then produced a second kettle from a high shelf. 

“Why do you sound so different?” I asked her. 

She began to tear the dried meat into bites and drop it into the kettle. “That was my work voice. It made people think I was scarier than I was. ‘Direct from Orzammar,’ and all that crap. Like I knew how to swing a hammer or a mug at their heads better than someone mostly raised in Ostwick.” 

“Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Galvora,” I said, watching her work and finally taking my place on the edge of the bed again. I seemed to be in her way more than anything. “I feel as though I didn’t before.” 

Galvora shrugged. “Peh. You didn’t. That was the tavern. This is different.” She ignored my proffered herbs and produced a small pouch from her belt, sprinkled its contents into the pot, then poured it all over with the last of the hot water. “But your name is Fenris, yes? And your other’s was Hawke. Maybe he’s what made me come. I heard about the explosion and that you’d survived, and… well, what’re the odds you’d come through my inn and then I’d hear _that_ after? Seems like an awful lot of luck to me.”

“That still doesn’t quite… I don’t understand.” I watched her as she cooked, pulling the teapot down with its hook and hanging the meat pot into its rack over the fire.

“I was tired of dealing with people like Imbert. He’s done,” she added quickly. “Got put in the Keep that very night, and thank you for that. But I know whatever you were running from, it was going to catch you. It just got me thinking.” 

I considered that for a moment as she stood and took off a heavy leather vest. She draped it over the back of a chair and moved to light a lantern. “So dark in here,” she remarked, and Luno agreed with a soft bark and a floppy-tongued grin. 

“You’ve never complained before,” I chastised. In response, he groaned softly and rested his chin on his paws, eyes canted up to mine. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I muttered at him. “Besides, you see better than I do.” 

He made a low rowfing noise and shook his head. 

Galvora chuckled. “You seem to be getting on fine,” she murmured. “We always manage somehow, don’t we? When things are difficult, I mean. We used to say, when it got bad, ‘No harder than the Stone.’ We were idiots.” 

She sighed heavily, glancing around at her pack, her cloak, her mittens, all sitting in small puddles of melted snow and cluttering up the place. “I ruined the place.” 

“No, you didn’t,” I replied without hesitation. I wasn’t sure how I could explain to her how welcome she truly was in my space. She’d done good things for us, stood by us in the only way she could. That was generosity, as far as I was concerned. She was also among the last people to see Hawke and myself together. 

Perhaps it was foolish of me to view her in a positive light because of that, but Hawke always said that I had selective eyes.

Once the tea was made, she poured it into the one cup I had, then beckoned me over. “Share this with me, since it’s yours anyway.”

“I think you just made it yours,” I chuckled, but I moved to sit cross-legged beside her on the rug in front of the fire. She took a careful, hissing sip from the mug, then handed it over. 

“So you really just came to… what, do good?” 

She poked at the meat over the fire with a spoon. “Yes.” Galvora’s sharp gaze caught mine. “Is that so hard to believe? From what I’ve heard, people do it all the time - just show up to the Inquisition.”

I remembered Cullen saying that civilians and soldiers alike were arriving day by day, and I nodded. “I suppose… well, I have some difficulty trusting in the goodness of my fellow man.”

Galvora laughed, the sound loud and welcome in my space. “It’s good that you know that, at least,” she said, taking the tea back from me. 

She held the mug in both small hands as she drank, fingertips sticking out of those grey gloves.  
She still looked so cold that when she offered the mug back, I waved my hand in demurral. She shrugged and kept it, sighing happily.

“So, all right,” she began after a few more sips and another poke at the slowly simmering rabbit. “Let’s get to know one another. I grew up in a noble house in Orzammar’s Diamond Quarter. My father was Gemor Harsten.”

“You’re nobility?” I interjected, surprised. 

Galvora nodded. “Seems strange, doesn’t it? That alone made it easy for me to act like I’d been born in Ostwick. You get tired of the strings of questions.” 

I considered that a moment. “I was never asked strings of questions - and I definitely look stranger than you do.” 

She chuckled, shaking her head. “You didn’t run a tavern.” 

I grinned, nodding. “True.” 

“You also have this… prickly thing about you.” She held her hand up to indicate my entire person. 

“I know another dwarf who says the same thing.”

“Can’t wait to meet - him? Her?” 

She took another sip of tea and pushed the cup at me a little insistently this time, so I accepted it. “Him. Varric Tethras. You should have heard of him, by his own -” 

“Varric Tethras is here?” she interrupted, sudden excitement in her voice. 

“Yes.” I grinned at her. “I take it you’ve read the books.” 

“Well, who hasn’t?” She took the tea back after I had a sip. “That, and the Orlesian series, ‘Baiser du Morte.’ Fantastic.”

“You read Orlesian novels?” I asked her, surprised again.

“Oh, sure. Mother had them brought in for me while she complained about the expense. She’s a bit of a rebel. Papa didn’t think I needed to learn a language just so I could read surfacer books, but I taught myself.” A sudden pall of sadness settled over her, and she looked down at her hands. “I miss them.” 

“How did you come to be up here? It sounds like you had a happy life.” 

She shrugged, and the pall deepened. “My brother and sister are conniving bitches, the both of them. There was talk of me receiving a position in the Assembly as our house’s deshyr when Papa passed on, and they hated me for that. Backbiting little shits.” 

There was the Galvora I remembered from the tavern. “So you left?” 

“Yes, but not quite for that reason,” she went on. “They tricked me. It was Tevia’s idea, and then Davhen went along. They told me Papa’s talk of the Assembly seat was nothing but lies, that he didn’t like that I was following in Mother’s footsteps. She’s a revolutionary, more so than even our King Bhelen. She wanted to push for more interaction with the surface and possibly go as far as to reclaim dwarves who had gone up for the good of Orzammar.” She snorted at the irony of it and poked at the stew again. “I wonder if she’s gotten anywhere with that.” 

“What did your brother and sister do?” I asked, a little shocked that someone as intelligent as Galvora could be deceived enough to leave.

“They forged letters. They had his seal, they had his name… these documents said that I was not only never going to be a deshyr, but that I would never even become a patron. That I was already too oriented toward human cultures and that I’d corrupt whatever I touched.” 

“Because you read Orlesian romance novels.” 

Galvora winked and clicked her tongue. “Exactly. I was sixteen and as arrogant as the favored child always is - which translates roughly to ‘stupid’ - and rather than talk to my parents, I took my siblings’ advice and quietly left.”

“How did you find out what happened?” 

“I wrote a nasty letter home.” Galvora’s eyes filled with regret. “I called them names, I used terrible language, I told them I hated them for what they’d done to me and I was glad to be on the surface. When I received the reply almost a year later - well.” She looked at her palm, running a fingertip idly over a line in it. “My father swore he’d die before he let either of them take his place in the Assembly, and he made good on that. My brother and sister were offered a choice: take a brand and join the casteless, or go to the surface. Apparently, I have a cousin who now sits in his place.” 

I watched her fidget her hands together a moment. “I’m sorry,” I said simply. “For your loss - all of it.” 

Galvora shrugged as though her entire life’s story was a simple mishap. “I was a silly child, and I paid for that. That alone tells me that I would not have made a good representative of my house. Coming to the surface enabled me to see and do more than I ever could have dreamed. I’ve seen Val Royeaux. I’ve tasted fish from the ocean. I speak three languages. No one in Orzammar does that.”

“What about your brother and sister?” 

She shook her head. “I don’t know. Mother wouldn’t tell me. I suspect that means they went below. The rare few who are declared casteless rather than being born that way are stricken from the Memories and, for all intents and purposes, never existed.”

I did not know what to say. The suffering she had endured had me hurting for her, this fiery dwarven woman I barely knew.

“Stop it,” she said when she saw the look on my face. “I’m here. I’ve had a good life since I came up. I got to decide I didn’t want to be an innkeeper anymore, and now I’m going to help you save the world. Not everyone gets to do that.” 

I smiled at her. “You are an amazing woman, Galvora.” 

“I know it.” She gave Luno a scratch on the head and took up the hook for the stewpot. “And I make a mean pot of rabbit.”


	13. What Happens at Therinfal Stays at Therinfal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seeking the aid of the Templar Order proves more complicated than expected, because of course it does. Fenris learns more about the way the thing on his hand and his lyrium markings are interacting. And there's a demon. Not that one; the other one over there.
> 
> This chapter SFW; song is "Lost in the Echo" / Linkin Park / Hawke
> 
> I made up some Tevene out of Latin. Doesn't seem like too much of a stretch, right? That footnote is at the end of the chapter.

The advisors had said that Lord Seeker Lucius changed his tune completely when discovering that we had the backing of Orlesian nobles. I was to enter the keep with a particular member of the nobility. Lord Abernache was a grandstanding arse, but if presenting with him at my side was required, then I would do it. 

Barris - the young Templar who’d been in Val Royeaux with the Revered Mother - greeted us. He’d been uncertain in the capital city, but now he was plainly frightened. 

“I greet you, Herald of Andraste,” he murmured, crossing his forearms over his chest and bowing. I waved a hand, feeling the same awkwardness I did whenever anyone showed me this reverence. “I am the one who sent word to Cullen. This promise of status… suffice it to say that the Lord Seeker is fascinated beyond reason with your newfound allegiances, and he wishes to understand more about you,” he explained as led us into a courtyard and showed me a set of standards, indicating that I should raise each in order of importance. 

I thought it was a strange request at best - what did he expect to learn, exactly? - and considered declining. When Abernache barked at Barris to let his betters get to what was important, I gave the Templar a smug glance and moved to position the first standard. 

“This is ridiculous!” Abernache sputtered. “A child’s errand!”

“There is value in tradition,” Vivienne countered, and for once, I was glad of her presence. I had, to be honest, only brought her along because Cullen feared a trap and wanted someone who could cast a stable barrier. He’d suggested Solas again, and I had given him a very curt “no.” 

I’d practically felt her preening through the very air, but for all her pretense, she was proving to be useful: she knew the lord and seemed to carry quite a lot of disdain for him, which amused me. 

“Darling, if the Lord Seeker wishes his standards ordered, then it is a small enough request - we can’t all be fortunate enough to have obtained the agreement to repair the Miroir de la Mère from the Empress herself.” She tilted her head, one eyebrow arching delicately. “Oh, dear - still uninhabitable, isn’t it? Are you certain that you would not like to attend to the standards yourself - perhaps it is something more suited to your skills?”

His Lordship’s mask only went so far and did not hide the humiliated flush creeping up his neck to his ears. He shook his head tersely. I made a mental note to bring Vivienne along more often.

I raised the people’s standard to the highest level, then elevated the Andrastian, and then the Templar. 

Barris asked me to explain my decision, and I told him simply, “My answers are my own.” I did not think he - nor Cassandra, for that matter - wished to hear how little I cared for any part in this twofold rebellion, and that I primarily strove to see Lucius back in line after utilizing the Templars’ ability to help me seal the Breach. 

“Very well,” Barris nodded. “This way, please.” 

He led us to a small antechamber within the redoubt’s walls. A few other Templars stood around the room, presumably as guards. Barris then called for a runner to fetch the Lord Seeker - but who came in the Lord Seeker’s place was the Knight-Captain, and as soon as he entered the room - 

I tensed all over, feeling my blood beginning to hum with the strange music, both sonorous and cacophonic, of the red lyrium. Varric noticed my expression and looked alarmed. It was almost as it had been at the Temple, but this was… different. Muffled. This wasn’t a massive crystalline structure made of the stuff, but a man. 

_What fresh nightmare…?_

“Knight-Captain Denam!” Abernache began. 

The Templar cut him off. “The Lord Seeker has found that the Inquisition’s arrival has sown too much dissent within the ranks.”

I narrowed my eyes. “What dissent? We’re here by his request, and now that’s inconvenient? Explain yourself.” 

Barris raised a hand, glancing at me before turning to Denam. “Knight-Captain, I must know what’s going on.”

Abruptly, I could hear fighting outside our little meeting room - a lot of it. Some of it sounded less like a battle and more like cries for mercy. 

“Knight-Captain?” Barris asked, a tremor of fear in his voice. 

“You were all supposed to be changed!” Denam hissed at him. “Now, we must purge the questioning knights!”

My confusion grew, as did the burn in my blood when more Templars entered the room. Denam’s helm obscured his face, but in the torchlight, I could see the strange, red protrusions I’d mistaken for traditional Templar wings. Now I looked around me at the archers and sword-bearers entering. Their otherwise ashen faces bore deeply red veins, and their eyes… Maker. 

I drew my sword, as did Barris. Before we could react, Abernache was dead, an arrow burying itself in his temple.

“No one will leave Therinfal who is not stained red!” Denam shouted, and immediately the red Templars, who’d taken strategic positions around the room, began executing the untainted ones. 

“Maker’s breath!” Barris exclaimed, but his revulsion and shock sparked his anger at the betrayal. 

Cassandra rushed to Barris’ side and deflected an arrow that had been loosed at his head. Varric shot the offending Templar in the throat, and I dashed forward and ran another archer through. I had the same strange feeling I’d experienced on the Storm Coast with Bull - I didn’t just feel fast. I felt _elegant,_ and I took out the majority of our foes myself. 

The battle was short but bloody, and while I fought, the red lyrium’s frightful song shivered through me. 

Strangely enough, once our enemies were dead, so was the music.

“Fenris,” Cassandra breathed, staring, “what - how -?” She looked around us at the bodies of the red Templars and spread her hands. 

“I don’t know,” I told her. “Believe me, I wish I had an explanation.” Whatever this mark was doing to my lyrium - enhancing it, invigorating it - I was afraid of the implications. It was now climbing onto my wrist. 

“We will see what Leliana can discover when we get back to Haven. For now - Barris, what can you tell us?” 

Barris shook his head and wiped a speck of blood from his cheek. “I… I don’t know. This is madness. There has been some unrest as the leadership stands by the Lord Seeker’s strange refusal to assist, but…” He stared around at his former brethren. “We have to find him.” 

We hurried out into a corridor that seemed to run the length of that wing and were almost immediately met by more red Templars. Thankfully, their exposure to the lyrium was less than the Knight-Captain’s had been, so my discomfort was easier to manage. As we hewed them down, the lyrium call died out just as it had before.

Abruptly a voice invaded my very mind: _Prepare them. Guide them to me._

Varric kicked open a door, leading with Bianca. Cassandra nudged past him, shield at the ready, while Vivienne stood near me, ready to fling a barrier over us. None of them gave any indication of having heard anything, but I knew I had not detected it with my _ears_.

“I don’t suppose anyone else heard that?” I asked.

“What?” Varric asked. “I hear a lot of yelling and swords out there - but other than that, total calm.” Cassandra snorted at him. 

We moved through the torchlit corridor, occasionally checking side rooms. The strange mind-voice reminded me a bit of those at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, only without the benefit of witnesses.

That was not a comfort. 

The voice made itself known a few times more as we explored the keep. It seemed… angry. Insistent. Was it the Lord Seeker? That did not make sense. It seemed to want to invade me and exalt me at the same time. _Show me what you are…_

If red lyrium could speak, I supposed this was what it would say. That thought made me shudder.

The corridor finally led to a courtyard littered with crates and sacks. “Stay alert,” Cassandra warned softly. “This is perfect ground for an ambush.” She looked up and pointed at a ladder leading to a makeshift balcony; Varric nodded and climbed up to scout. I raised a hand to stop him - I thought I’d seen someone sitting on the battlement - but when I turned to look, there was no one.

Varric spotted red Templars on the other side of the courtyard around an outcropping of the building and indicated four of them. Cassandra nodded and signaled him to fire at will. He picked two of them off before they were aware of our presence, and then I effortlessly scythed my way through the other two. Cassandra and Vivienne stared and shook their heads; Varric, once he’d climbed down and noted my handiwork, looked impressed.

It took us a while to reach the main courtyard, but then, as we approached the entrance to the great hall, we saw him: Lord Seeker Lucius. His back was to us, and his head was bowed in what looked like surrender.

“Thank the Maker,” Cassandra muttered. “I will see him answer for these crimes.” 

We ascended the steps and approached him, but when he turned to me, what was in his eyes and voice was not surrender. It was evil and glee. 

“At last!” he cried and grabbed me, pulling me close. 

The world flashed white, then green, and then I stood, blinking in a cavernous chamber. Everything was tinged a sickly ( _Danarius_ ) green, and the shadows were too deep to be real. Was I in the Fade? I couldn’t be sure, but while the sight before me evoked my nightmares, it felt different. It felt… constructed.

I moved forward slowly, looking around me. There were mushy places in the ground, ceiling, and walls that bubbled and churned like the ends of Fade rift tendrils, and I reached back and drew my sword… why did I still have it? That didn’t bode well, but I was very much aware that the rules did not apply here. Exactly how, I had no idea yet.

The arches were overhung with sinister plants that seemed to reach for me, and scattered across the floor of this apparent hall in which I walked were bodies like the ones I’d seen at the Temple. They stuck out of the floor like weeds, fixed there in one horrific _rigoris mortali_ (1) after another, flaming as they'd done immediately after the Temple had gone up. 

In one corner, half-embedded in the floor, lay Hawke’s gauntlet.

“What is this?” I growled softly. I glanced around, my steps slowing as I gripped my sword.

As I neared the gauntlet, the movement of one of those ebon-green froths of rift caught my attention. Abruptly I was standing before Cullen and Josephine. They stood stock-still, staring, then Leliana, spymaster, stepped out stringent. 

I placed my palm into the middle of my forehead, shutting my eyes tight. My very thoughts did not feel like my own. What was happening to me? 

Leliana stepped forward before me. “Is this shape useful? Will it let me _know_ you?” It sounded just like our spymaster, but when it stepped behind Cullen and put a knife to his throat, I knew I was in the same dark place of lies that had shown me Danarius and Hawke working together - the same place where a pride demon had offered me succor from the magisters who still hunted me. 

“Everything tells me about you - so will this,” it went on. It slit the throat of Cullen’s visage. The wound spurted black and he slumped to the ground.

“Demon, you do not fool me,” I growled. “I have faced your kind before.”

“Ah, but here you do not have your intrepid Hawke to save you from the nightmare,” the Leliana-thing crooned. “Here, you are alone. Can you say that you could defeat me on your own?”

“I will try,” I said, “and you will not come out unscathed.”

“‘I will try, and you will not come out unscathed,’” it mimicked, its voice becoming an irritable screech. “You seem so indomitable, but you carry so much doubt. When I am you, there will be none of the latter, only ferocity and will.” 

So that was its game. 

The Leliana-thing stepped back into the shadows and abruptly was Josephine. “Being you will be _so_ much more interesting than the Lord Seeker.” It paced around me, brandishing Josephine’s quill, then disappeared behind a column and was gone, only to reappear behind me, threatening of an Inquisition led by a demon wearing my face, and my death at the hands of this… Elder One.

“Keep talking,” I growled. I could see that it either had no intention of harming me here or simply could not - so I sheathed my sword, spread my hands, and beckoned in a blatant invitation. “Or come, if you dare.”

It snarled once, but then: Cullen. 

“Brash! That is useful!” It cackled. “But I am not your toy. I am Envy, and I will know you!

“Tell me, ‘Herald,’ in your mind…” It stood, as Cullen so often did, bent over the war table. Every piece, every marker was aflame. “Tell me what you think. What you _feel_. What you _see._ ”

The illusion put before me was obviously meant to be myself, but it was a black silhouette with flaming green eyes - my shape, but none of my detail. Not even my marks, which I found curious. The Cullen-demon ran “me” through with a dagger, then showed the likeness dying a painful death. It was… not convincing, even as I looked down and saw the dagger in my own hand. It was as though I were being played by a bad stage actor who did not fully grasp his character. 

And then it was gone. I stood alone in the chamber that mimicked a piece of the Temple, arched doorways and dead bodies and the infernal green. There had to be a way forward. I resisted the urge to pull out my sword as I stalked through the hall and peered into doorways.

A room of soldiers came next, their swords trained on my likeness, chained to the floor. So it had my memories, but could not piece together a cohesive, convincing whole. Even some of the things Cassandra said were not as they had been. Not quite. 

“My memory is faulty, but yours is more so,” I muttered, half to myself and half to the demon. “Are you sure this is the best way to build me?” I moved on.

The next hall housed “me” and a few soldiers, discussing how the enemies of the Inquisition had surrendered unconditionally - and it made sense. The demon could not reconstruct me, so it had moved on to what fantasy it could invent from whole cloth.

“Is imitating what you can’t have your only pleasure, demon?” I smirked. 

“Accusing,” it retorted. “Trying to find my weakness - is that the man you are?” It cackled and exploded the scene in yellow light before igniting some kind of safeguard: small towers that spewed green flame. They rotated at intervals. A puzzle? 

I observed them for a moment, then paced my way between the sprays of fire to a small alcove with a door. Behind it was a room, but a strange one. It contained a bed, a wagon wheel, trees growing from the corners. A table and chairs were positioned on one wall. It was Fade trickery. Finding nothing that could help me here, I turned to leave. 

“Wait.” 

It was not the demon’s voice, but still…

“Envy is hurting you. Mirrors on mirrors on memories. A face it can feel but not fake. I want to help. You, not Envy.”

The voice was soft. Concerned. I was wary because I had already heard that it could imitate many voices. I turned in the little, brown room with its furniture and scattered trappings in impossible positions, but there was no one. “I’m through with your lies, Envy.”

“I’m not a lie. I’m Cole. We’re inside you. Well… I am. You’re always inside you.”

Inside… me? 

“What are you?” I demanded. “I am aware that demons often run in packs. Know now that there will be no bargain.” 

His voice came from behind me now, and I turned. He was standing on the ceiling, and I saw a tow-headed boy all but hidden in a hat with a massive brim. Of course it would use an innocent face.

“Not a demon,” he tried to assure me. “I’m here. Hearing, helping. I hope. It isn’t usually like this, in the hearing.” 

I snarled. “The least I could ask is that things make sense in my own head.” But I was beginning to piece things together. This was why the demon had my memories, my fears, and my confusion. No man’s mind is cloudier than when he is grieving.

Cole chuckled. “It never works like that,” he said sadly. 

There came a screech of anger from outside our little room, and I turned back to… whatever it was. 

He explained that every one of the Templars had been thrilled and impressed when I’d arrived, but the Lord Seeker - the demon - had become enraged. He’d been feeding them the lyrium (“They’re red inside,” Cole said), and now had to abandon his carefully-laid plans of building… what? A tainted army for the Elder One?

“Anyway, you’re frozen. Envy is trying to take your face -”

“What do you mean, I’m ‘frozen’?” I demanded. 

“I heard it,” he went on as though I hadn’t spoken, “and reached out, then in, and then I was here.”

“In my head.” 

“Yes,” Cole said simply, and he sounded relieved, as though pleased he’d finally made the dense elf understand. 

“You’re a spying, eavesdropping demon -”

“Not a demon,” he corrected patiently. 

“- phantom, then, who accidentally entered my mind?”

“If it bothers you,” he said sadly, “I can make you forget. That usually helps. But not until - after. It has to be after. You need all of you right now.” 

“I would prefer it that way,” I replied dryly. “Very well - but I promise nothing. You help me get out if that’s what you say you’re here for - and there will be nothing in return. I will not bargain with a demon.”

“Not a demon,” he repeated.

“So you've said.” I noticed that he did not tell me what he _was,_ only what he was not, but I could wander this maze for - well. What construct of time suited the inside of my mind? Seconds? Days? “You never explained how it is that I’m ‘frozen.’” 

“Thoughts are fast,” he explained. He painted a picture of a battle stopped in time, with this demon-ruled pocket of my mind flashing by in an instant between heartbeats in the real world. I questioned him further, but he had no real knowledge of how to defeat the demon.

“Nothing you say is helping to clear my head,” I sighed, turning away. 

“It’s your head,” he replied. “I was hoping you’d know how to stop it.” He was on the bed now, and he stood, considered, shook his head. His expression cleared. 

“All of this is Envy. People, places, power. If you keep going, he has to stretch, but he can’t stretch and keep strength. It is a struggle.” He hopped down from the bed. 

At once, I resented these presences in my mind - both the demon’s and Cole’s. 

“So if I keep moving forward, Envy becomes tired?” 

“Maybe,” Cole said quietly. “It’s more than sitting here waiting to lose your face.”

I shuddered and gestured him on ahead of me. What choice did I have?

We moved past the last of the green flames by virtue of Cole teaching me to “imagine water.” It was difficult; I did not consider myself to be a very imaginative person, which surprised Cole. 

“How can you not be?” he asked. “You are in the word ‘imagine.’ It is in you, in the markings that make your magic.”

I blinked at him. “That kind of magic does not help me see water.” 

“Try,” he insisted, so I did: I imagined the camp north of Lake Luthias, where the blood lotuses grew thick and plentiful near the waterfall that fed into a little stream. The memory made me ache to be there, out of this awful green place and in the sun, with the fresh water and a comfortable camp ready to hand. 

And then there was water. I could hear it - even smell it - but it did not wet me, only replaced the green flame with something I could pass through. 

“That thing can’t help you,” Envy snarled, “I will see more!” 

“Good,” Cole said simply and disappeared. 

I walked through more idle fantasies of a dread Inquisition with this pretender taking my name, but still, it rang hollow. It could not truly wish to know me, or it would know that I was trying to be good, at least attempting to be strong. I had no wish to use the power of the Inquisition to crush those smaller than us or elevate the already powerful alongside us.

I saw Mother Giselle declared a heretic. Envy had taken my memory of mild frustration with the woman and turned it into a reason to have her executed - or had it simply just surged forward, ignoring my true thoughts and feelings? It did not matter. I was ready to be done with this… place. 

I saw Cullen jailed, called a traitor. I saw Josephine starved, wishing for something to confess to. Then I found Cole again and he led me to light a series of braziers. I found myself grateful for his guidance - how would I have known to do these things? Imagine water, envision sparks, these were not a warrior’s thoughts. But I pressed onward, relishing the protesting snarls of the demon in my mind. 

The demon showed me Orlesians next, but no Val Royeaux. I saw only gnarled tree roots and the same cages as before, empty and locked. It was running out of ideas, unable to even reproduce a paltry storefront or courtyard within Val Royeaux’s grandeur. Suddenly I was glad that I’d been so overwhelmed by the place. The fine details were too much for Envy, and it was growing tired. But the men in the vision said that Val Royeaux burned.

“I would never,” I growled, and Envy cackled. 

I crossed a threshold into a courtyard full of trees. It reminded me of the wooded areas of the Wounded Coast, and I felt a stab of longing for Hawke so strong that I stopped where I was. 

“He is not here,” Cole said. 

I shook my head, pressing my palm to the middle of my forehead. “I know. I - you need to get out right now, Cole.” 

“He can’t help you.” 

“I _know_ ,” I gritted out. “Leave this alone.” 

“He clouds you, covers you, keeps you from becoming. He can’t -”

“ _Stop_ it,” I shouted, covering my ears, and Envy laughed again, the sound so close it was as though he was standing beside me.

There was silence for a moment, and then Cole whispered, “Keep moving up. You have to find yourself.”

I laughed bitterly, but his words encouraged me in spite of the perpetual sense of invasion. I was nearly there; I could feel it. 

The courtyard was littered with shades, and I drew my sword instinctively - but they did not attack. This was _its_ army, and they recognized my face and saw me as their leader. With a revolted shudder, I moved on, finding my way through the trees to a staircase. Envy complained and threatened, but it was so much noise. 

Cole sat at the entrance to another courtyard. “He’s getting tired. He’ll probably come out soon.” He indicated a lever and I pulled it, opening the gate. 

The entrance revealed more Orlesians - civilians, by the sound, and they were terrified. Their country had been overrun. This was the demon’s plan, then: to topple Orlais, sowing more chaos for this Elder One. Another tier of the courtyard gave me news of a dead Empress Celene. I climbed through these wooded layers for what seemed like hours, learning of greater destruction with each passing gateway. 

Finally, I stood before a great, arched doorway. I was about to open it when I was shoved from behind and spun about. The demon, with its green eyes of fire and my shape but not my true face or skin yelled, “Unfair! Unfair! That thing kept you whole - kept you from giving me your shape.” It gripped my throat and pinned me to the door, raising me above it, choking me. 

I struggled briefly, instinctively, but there was no constriction on my throat, just as there had been no water, no fire. This was all in my mind. I relaxed, and that infuriated Envy. 

“We’ll begin again,” it crooned. “More pain this time. The Elder One still comes.” It raised its free hand, glowing green like my own. 

Cole whispered, “He’s afraid of you.” 

“Get out of -” Envy began, but Cole had given me my opening. I shoved forward and slammed my head into the demon’s, and the world went white again. 

I stood, blinking, at the ejected Envy. It had leapt away, no Lord Seeker now but a twisted, profane creature out of its element, terrified. It had a misshapen, stitched-together face and appeared to be both as pink as a newborn and grey as a weathered, old woman. It darted into the main hall and then disappeared into a lightning-streaked cloud before it threaded itself through a scintillating barrier and was gone.

Looking around me, I could see that Cole was nowhere to be found - nor, I suppose, should I have expected him to be.

“The Lord Seeker!” Barris breathed, following for a few steps after the demon before realizing it was futile. 

“No,” I corrected. “An imposter.” 

Barris looked defeated. “The monster ensured we were unprepared. I am still not sure what we’re up against.” 

“An Envy demon took the Lord Seeker’s place. I’m sorry.”

“Then ...?” Cassandra asked, shocked. 

Realizing now, Barris shook his head. “Dead or caged. Maker.” I knew him to be a young man by Cassandra’s reports, but he looked as though he’d gained a decade in this day. He turned to me and said, “It was the red lyrium, wasn’t it? I knew that stuff was risky.” 

He explained how it had begun: with the commanders taking the lyrium to show that it was safe, then giving it to the knights. I would not be the one to say it, but it was a good plan, if nefarious: drown the leadership in the stuff so the rank and file could have no recourse but to follow along. My arrival had thrown the lower ranks into disorder as they looked for a leader that didn’t seem completely mad. 

I turned to Cassandra for guidance, but she only watched me. Once again, I was on my own. 

“Then let us end this,” I told Barris decisively. ”You cannot blame yourself, but you can move past this with the men you have. We have to kill the demon - Templars, tell me how.” I turned my gaze to the rest of them.

Barris considered a moment, then began to form a plan. There was a cache of clean, untainted lyrium in the compound, and he surmised that there had to be a few veterans left scattered about. We needed them to break down the barriers the demon had erected and draw Envy out for slaying. 

But no sooner had we constructed the plan than we were attacked, and this time it was no Knight-Captain with a couple of moderate growths. 

The creature who broke through the western door of the hall was an utter horror, almost a demon in itself. It had long arms like a shade and its back was hunched and grotesquely misshapen, its body both saturated and covered with the blood-red lyrium crystals. The closeness of it made my blood and bones ache, and as it neared me, the magnetic siren shriek of it through my lyrium made me drop my sword and fall to my knees, curling up on myself with a pained cry. 

I dimly recognized the crackle and hum of a barrier, and through the noise of battle, I heard Cassandra yelling, though I could not make out the words. She blocked a vicious clawed strike and several lyrium projectiles before Varric and two Templars took the thing out.

As it died, so did its effect on me. 

I heaved in a breath, then another, trying to relax as the barrier Vivienne had thrown over me sizzled out.

“What’s happening?” Barris asked Cassandra. He looked at me, brow furrowed. 

“The red lyrium…” She indicated my markings. “It is incredibly painful for him to be near it. We do not know what to do about it yet.” 

“Then he must stay here, help us hold this area while you find the lieutenants and the lyrium.”

“How is that better when I can’t even fight one of those… things?” I asked, finally finding the strength to stand.

Barris looked around, and though I’d thought that he had aged, now he looked not only older but wiser. He was a planner, this one, and as he spoke again, I thought he’d do well right beside Cullen. 

“There,” he said. He pointed to a ladder that led up to another platform like the ones we’d seen all over the courtyards. “You get up there with a crossbow. I can show you how to use it in a minute and a half; it takes almost no training. You can fight from a distance. We’ll keep them from advancing on you.”

“What if I hit someone by accident?” 

Varric indicated my markings. “You can… do that thing you do, where you become impossibly fast and we all stand there staring while you steal our kills. I bet that improves your aim.” 

In spite of myself, I chuckled. “Find that amusing, do you?” 

“Well. Not when it's my kills you're stealing.” 

I shook my head. “I should be there. You will meet resistance.” 

“Darling, it took all three of us and two Templars to keep you from being dispatched by one of those things,” Vivienne pointed out. “How will you fare - how will we all fare - with you incapacitated against three? Or more?”

“She is right,” Cassandra nodded. “We have no idea how many Templar officers survived this… process. You must trust us.” 

I looked from her to Varric, who nodded. “We’ve got this. You stay here and pick ‘em off from up there. We’ll be back before you know it.”

“All right,” I agreed. “But it feels like hiding.” 

Cassandra moved to grip my upper arm, then stopped herself before she touched me. “It is not hiding if you can help while living to fight another day. We cannot lose you to these monsters.” 

As I watched them leaving the hall, I wished she had finished the gesture. I turned to Barris, new steel in my heart. “Show me what to do.”

~ ~ ~ ~

They came in waves. First, it was enthralled lower officers, captains and the like. Those, I wished I could have taken out with my sword simply because it would have been far more satisfying to be up close as they died. 

But then the upper-ranking Templars came, and even from a distance, I could feel the infernal song and knew that I could not survive against them at close range, and I might not have had time to get away. These not only had been taking red lyrium longer but had the strength to withstand the ravages of it. These were highly trained officers who had abandoned everything they knew - in battle and out of it - and I was horrified to see the ease with which they had turned on their brothers and sisters.. 

Barris had provided not a quiver of bolts, but a crate. “Aim well, and fire often,” he had said, then looked at me apologetically. “I - didn’t mean for that to sound like an order. I am not your commander.” 

“It’s all right,” I’d assured him, aiming down the sight of the crossbow and firing into a post by way of practice. “I take direction well.” 

“This is more than ‘taking direction,’” he’d promised. “If you’re anything like what we’ve heard you are, then I’m simply keeping you safe for the moment - we need you. That you trust your fellows on the mission while a stranger teaches you this skill says a lot about your character.”

Now I fired, reloaded, fired, reloaded, my arms tiring as I worked in a way that I was wholly unused to. The enemy did not relent, however, and I remembered Varric’s comment about stealing his kills. 

Still aiming, I concentrated. I forcibly primed my lyrium and sank into the burn. In a way that I had never done before, I felt everything around me slow. 

Whatever else the mark was doing to my lyrium, it was amplifying the effects. I was faster, more accurate than before, and as I stared around at the battle below me, I realized that it felt like _more_ because for once, I was still. 

I felt a preternatural swiftness take over. I could see everything. An untainted Templar was about to be cut down - I took out his attacker with a bolt through the eye. A red horror (it seemed a good enough name for them) staggered into the room - I fired three shots in rapid succession, pincushioning him without even feeling the burning ache in my shoulder as I reloaded. He staggered back and two Templars took him out. I heard a cry from the corner of the room near the dais, and twisted to fire into a red captain’s chest - and then again, just to be sure. 

The enemy continued to come, almost swarming, and I began to tire again. It was as though they had paced themselves to wear us down by degrees rather than flood into the room at once. It bought us time, but the battle was grueling.

_Where is Cassandra?_

A thought crossed my mind, though what prompted it, I could not say. “Barris!” I yelled. “I need a lyrium potion!” 

He ran his current foe through and looked up at me, puzzlement on his face. Nevertheless, he took the last one from his own utility belt and swung it once, twice, then tossed it up toward me. I grabbed the railing on the platform and leaned out as the lyrium arced in the air and landed neatly into my palm. 

“What are you doing, Leto?” I muttered to myself - sparing a wonder as to where _that_ name had come from, never mind what I was considering - as I tore the cork out of the bottle with my teeth and spat it out. Braced for something awful, I drank. 

The liquid went down cold, though the bottle itself was slightly warm from the heat of Barris’ body. There was a silvery taste to it, as though I were drinking something electric. It pooled in my stomach, cool and somehow refreshing without slaking my thirst. Just as I thought that I could do with an actual drink of water, it hit me. 

My lyrium primed itself. Barris, who was keeping an eye on me since my strange request, developed an eyes-wide look of shock as my ink blazed into life. A red Templar shambled toward him as though slowed by a spell, and I shot it without aiming. Another came in a door immediately to his right, and I loaded and loosed another bolt without effort, skewering him between the eyes. 

“Keep fighting!” I yelled to our remaining Templars. “Cassandra and the others will be here soon!” 

_Maker, please be here soon._

One of them shouted in solidarity. They had grouped into twos and threes, trying to hold each others’ backs. Barris shouted directions, and if the red Templars could hear him, then they did not show it. They had no leadership among their ranks; I would have expected them to change their tactics when Barris yelled things like “Flank him!” but they did not. I wondered how mindless they really were, how they could follow orders in this state - or were they simply husks now, cutting down everything in their paths? 

One of our Templars recognized the face of the corrupted before him and hesitated in shock and sorrow. I peppered bolts into his foe as fast as I could, yelling, “Soldier! That is not your commander anymore!” Barris heard my cry, dodged a massive crystalline fist, and broke his enemy’s head with a heavy slam of his shield. He rushed to the side of the struggling Templar, a good man named Kelvin, only just managing to block a blow that would have cleaved Kelvin right down the middle.

All I could do was watch and shoot, and that I did with what I knew to be lightning rapidity. My reflexes had never been so keen, nor had I known anyone else to possess such speed. 

But even the lyrium draught in combination with my own existing markings had to wear off eventually. We were flagging - all of us, and the numbers of red Templars seemed never to abate. Strong sword arms grew weaker. Shields came up more slowly. We were losing allies.

Abruptly Cassandra burst through the eastern door, Vivienne and Varric close behind her. Varric dropped a heavy case of lyrium vials and then commenced firing, his bolts seeking out any flash of red he could see. Templar veterans and lower-ranking soldiers poured in behind them, letting out rallying cries as they attacked; some of them were carrying additional lyrium. Vivienne cast a blizzard that slowed everything in its path, and Cassandra went to work. 

“Yes,” I breathed and began to fire again, renewed. “ _Yes!_ ”

Now the battle surged forward in our favor, and the red Templars either understood that they were outmatched or… in a fit of wishful thinking, I wondered if they’d simply run out. 

It was a nice idea. Hawke would have approved.

After the last horror fell and the battle drew to a close, we gathered in the center of the hall. 

Barris addressed us all as we caught our breaths. “With our lieutenants here, we can open that barrier and flush Envy out - give us a moment to rest and take our lyrium.” 

A murmur of agreement went up, and Barris took the opportunity to assess his troops. Some of the newer fighters were exhausted; they’d not had the depth of training that this battle required. He ordered them to take up crossbows and get onto the platforms. It would mean less fighting power but fewer casualties, and I agreed with his decision. 

He stepped closer to me and murmured, “What you did up there… I’ve never seen anything like it, but you looked just as surprised as I was. What happened?” 

Cassandra and the others moved closer. “Is something wrong?” she asked, frowning. 

“No.” I glanced at them in turn. “I’ll explain later; I don’t think we have time for it now.” Oh, but it would make for a rousing discussion around the war table, that much I knew. I could not even imagine what Leliana’s reaction was going to be. Or Cullen's.

Cassandra did not look pleased, but she said nothing. Varric’s scowl told me everything I needed to know about his opinion; Vivienne appeared completely disinterested.

Everyone took a sparse few moments to gather themselves; we had no idea what might happen once those barriers were dispersed. It was tense rest, however. The newer Templars were practically vibrating with fear, and even the veterans who had been fighting in the courtyards and barracks were visibly rattled. 

One particularly young recruit had taken a moment to loot the body of a horror - “Trying to see what they’re about,” he’d explained, his bravado showing - and then had broken down in tears. He would not (or could not) speak when pressed, but he did hold out his hand. What he’d found in the pocket of a corrupted upper-ranking knight was a small clay shield with a crude Templar insignia, obviously made by a child, and a locket housing a tiny portrait of a little girl.

“They’re us,” he cried, glancing about him in mixed sorrow and revulsion. “They’re _us_.”

Varric went to his side and guided him to a platform, murmuring to him; Barris simply nodded.

“It’s time,” Barris finally said, his reluctance evident in his slumped shoulders and muted tone. He took a great gulp of a large lyrium draught and then closed his eyes, pressing his lips to the side of the bottle for a long moment before setting it down. 

“Knights, captains, and lieutenants, to me.” A handful of officers approached the dais beside him, and they knelt, leaning on their swords. “Channel everything you have into dispelling this barrier,” he ordered quietly, then knelt with them. 

The power they held inside them became unmistakable as beams of golden light erupted from them - the power of the Maker himself, if I could allow myself to believe it. An energetic hum emitted from the row of Templars, and then the barriers began to give.

But it was only an instant before the hall was swarming again with those horrors and their lesser-ranked brethren, and I scrambled to my platform again, cursing. I shared the space with another young Templar archer, who was already firing. The red’s song was softer here, but if we couldn’t keep them back…

The Templars who had been put up on the platforms began to rain arrows and bolts into the tainted ones, and I followed suit. 

This battle went much more quickly. It appeared Envy’s forces truly were almost spent, and now we had the veteran soldiers on our side. Not to mention Cassandra.

As soon as the hall was cleared and the barrier blown through by the Templars’ power, we darted up the staircases to the courtyard beyond. The Breach hung heavy in the distance, and Envy’s cackle only served to anger me now. 

“I touched so much of you,” Envy growled, “but you are selfish with your glory - now, I am no one!”

“Dark and desperate,” Cole breathed, appearing on my left and startling everyone, “death to make yourself alive. I used to be like you - but I’m not anymore. You shouldn’t be, either.” He advanced on Envy, head tipped down in determination, and drew a set of daggers.

Envy proved a difficult foe, as sneaky and tenacious as it was in our day-to-day minds and hearts. The irony was not lost on me. I had suffered enough of this monster myself over the years in Kirkwall, like the stinging resentfulness that came with watching Hawke and Anders together, knowing what I knew. The black hope that something would end them. The nights full of loneliness. And here Envy was, wishing it could be me. 

_Oh, demon. You chose your target well._

What I now saw in this courtyard with its altar and its balcony overlooking a green valley was an unknown boy-thing that both was and was not a spirit fighting by our side. It was Cassandra, drawing the attention of the demon so that Varric could envelop himself in an alchemical cloud and flank it. It was Vivienne, throwing barriers over the allies and frost magic at the enemies - and not just Envy. He had reserved a small contingent of his red Templars, and they came from nowhere to surround us. 

Then I saw Barris at the head of a handful of his men. They had to have been completely spent; lyrium could only be consumed so often. But they still had swords, shields, and projectiles, and they turned the fight in our favor and secured us a victory. 

When Envy dissipated into the Fade, relief moved through us all. One of the younger recruits fainted, and Varric hurried over to him. 

“Thank you,” I said as I approached Barris, and I held my hand out to him. 

He clasped my wrist. “And you, Herald. Andraste be praised. There would be none of us left were it not for you.” He sighed heavily, looking around the courtyard and then down the corridor where the remaining Templars were gathered.

“We’ve numbers across Thedas, but we let this happen. Our officers either failed to see it or were complicit - and the Order is gutted by betrayal. Still, we are ready to hear what the Inquisition needs of us.” The rest of the Templars came out from the main hall and were gathering in a loose formation. 

I looked at them, then turned to look over my shoulder at the Breach. It hung in the sky, debris from the Fade and the physical world suspended in the air just below it. Even from farther away, it looked parasitic.

“We need true Templars to seal the Breach,” I told them. “Ally with us. We can give you supplies and grounds to shelter you. We can help you rebuild.” Truly, this was not some speech for political gain - I valued the efforts these brave men and women had put forth today, and I wanted to see them rewarded for their honesty and loyalty to an organization they knew little about.

Barris turned to his people. “Will we accept the Inquisition’s terms?” 

A small cheer went up; several Templars raised their fists. 

So, after the battle for Therinfal Redoubt, we had the means by which to close the Breach. 

~ ~ ~ ~

At the war table, Cullen was aghast. “What you found in the Captain’s quarters means the officers blighted nearly half their knights with red lyrium.” 

“Even before some of them realized the Lord Seeker had been replaced by a demon,” Cassandra added.

Leliana gazed down at the papers on the table. “Which put us in a position to demand more from our alliance. You should have consulted us, Herald.” 

I glared. I was sure that she was using the title rather than my name simply because she knew I disliked it. 

“You wanted the Templars to close the Breach,” I said in some disbelief, “and I delivered them. If a direct alliance was not on the table, it would have been good to know that before I set out for Therinfal, but let me be very clear: I am not interested in playing your faction politics over this.” 

Stepping forward, Leliana hardened her expression. “It was not your place to offer such concessions.” 

“You’ve made it my place.” I looked among the advisors. “All of you. We’ve established this time and time again. If you don’t want me making decisions, then I’ll be happy to step down.” 

Josephine cleared her throat and looked at her parchments. Leliana lowered her gaze. Only Cullen faced me squarely, nodding his head. “I know I speak for everyone,” and he cast a look in Leliana’s direction, “when I say that we do not want that. You’ve done well - perhaps it’s that we did not expect such a… definitive verdict.”

“Then what did you expect? That I should bring them in shackles, or would that be too ‘definitive’ in the other direction?” I sighed, then shook my head. “It was -” 

“Grueling,” Cassandra cut in. “Nearly two weeks to get there, the battle, and two weeks back again. I think the Herald - Fenris - has earned a rest. As have we all.” 

I tipped my head in her direction, grateful. 

“Very well,” Leliana said quietly. “We will discuss this tomorrow. I have received word that the veterans preceding the main group to seal the Breach will be in Haven within the -”

The war table seemed to erupt in a puff of smoke, and there was a terrible explosion in the air. When the smoke cleared, Cole knelt in the middle of the table.

“They’re almost here,” he murmured, taking up a marker from the table and turning it over in his hand. “Templars don’t like to be late.”

Cassandra had already drawn, and now Cullen moved around the table, the room ringing with the sound of his sword sliding out of its sheath. 

“Wait!” I said loudly, raising a hand. “I know him - he was at Therinfal.” 

Turning to me, Cassandra stared. “He was?” 

“Yes, he - listen, it’s difficult to explain.” Quickly, I told them of the instant in which the demon had grabbed me, and how it had stretched out in my mind, a maze of corridors and courtyards. I explained Cole’s role there - he’d guided me, and then drawn daggers against the demon. I knew he was a friend.

“But - I never saw this… boy,” Cassandra said, “unless he’d been hiding among the Templar ranks.” 

“Not hiding,” Cole said, “helping the hurt.” 

Cassandra shook her head, raising her sword. “This creature is not what you -”

“A moment, Cassandra,” Leliana spoke up, to my surprise. “I would like to hear why he came.” 

Cole tilted his head to me in that peculiar way that kept his eyes hidden under the depths of his hat-brim. ”You help people. You made them safe when they would have died. I want to do that. I can help heal the hole, seal the sky.”

“Why?” I asked, more curious than suspicious. 

“It isn’t right,” he said after a pause. “It was never right. It has to be put right.” 

Cole’s cryptic turns of phrase puzzled me - all of us, really - but something about this made me raise my hands, trying to encourage Cassandra and Cullen to stand down. 

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but let him stay. I’ll… I’ll take responsibility.” I thought about Anders - _what am I doing?_ I demanded of myself - but then Cole met my gaze, and for the first time, I could see his pale eyes. 

“I can help. It’s what you want, isn’t it? It should be what you want.”

“Yes, Cole,” I told him. “But just how can you help?” 

Cole pulled out a dagger. Cullen and Cassandra tensed, but he merely flipped it around in his fingers the way Hawke used to do with arrows. 

“We’re going to have to talk about that sort of thing.” I gave him a stern look. 

“What is that?” Leliana asked. 

I hesitated, then waved a hand. “He… reads minds. For the most part, it’s useful - right up until it’s too personal.”

“I understand,” Cole said. “Hawke hurts. But he is healing.” 

“I’ve told you to leave that alone,” I warned, this time with a bit of grit in my voice. 

Cole lowered his head, hiding his eyes again, and nodded. “I can fight. Forage. Find other ways.” 

I sighed. “All right, Cole. You may stay.” I looked at Leliana and she nodded; she’d be watching him. Cullen and Cassandra put their swords away, but I could tell neither of them liked this development. 

~ ~ ~ ~

We had constructed a makeshift mess hall in a side wing of the Chantry, and I sat with Varric, Bull, and Sera at the end of a table, my breakfast all but finished. Many of the others were scattered around nearby, and suddenly everyone needed to know what was happening with my marks. 

”I saw it when we went hunting that night,” Bull said. “All of a sudden he lit up like a firefly and was going -” and he made a quick, back-and-forth gesture with his hand, complete with whistling, buzzing noises to accompany it. “If he hadn’t been glowing, I might not’ve been able to see him.” 

“At Therinfal,” Barris said, “you took a lyrium potion. What in the name of Andraste made you think that would work?” 

“These are lyrium,” I explained to him, pointing out one silvery streak on my arm, and some of the other Templars turned to look. “They were placed upon me to improve my speed and coordination. The Fade mark is… enhancing them. When I grew fatigued, I suppose it was instinct.”

At that instant, Cole appeared behind me to a chorus of gasps. “It was a thought,” he said in his quiet, slightly eerie way. 

“Kid, you really need to try walking,” Varric muttered.

I stood. “Come with me,” I ordered Cole, and I stalked away from the breakfast table to a candlelit corner with some privacy. He followed, mouth tight with concern. 

“Did you put that in my head?” I demanded. “That thought?” 

He shrugged, slipping into the seat beside me. “I made it yours. To let you, Leto.” 

At that, I raised a hand. “Stop. Don’t call me that.” That was where it had come from, then - the idea and the name. It shook me more than I wanted to admit, and the fact that it wasn’t my own came with a strange disappointment. 

“Why not? Leto, the strong boy striving to be stronger. I thought -” 

“You can’t go poking around inside my head and just… have at my memories like that - especially the ones I can’t get to myself.” Maker, and I couldn’t believe that I was having this conversation with a ghost or a spirit or whatever Cole was. “It’s too…”

“Complicated,” Cole finished for me. “I understand.” 

“I don’t think you do.” 

“I’m sorry.” He lowered his head. “I meant for you to remember the right - and reach.” 

I dipped down, tilting my head to look at him under his brim. “How did you know you wouldn’t make me angry?” I had once felt great resentment when my sister had used that name, but now…

“Are you?” he asked me, his own gaze held firmly to the side. His arms were crossed in front of his stomach in a self-protective hug.

I sighed. “No. I’m not. But… you have to try to avoid doing that. People don’t like their innermost thoughts used that way. It’s invasive.” 

“People? All people?” His voice trembled.

I wanted to be exasperated, but he was just a boy, or he seemed to be. I truly did believe he was trying to help. “I - all right, I don’t know if _all_ people feel that way. I know I do.” 

“And others might.” He nodded once, a slight movement of his hat. “I will not call you Leto anymore.” 

I hesitated, then nodded. That wasn’t the whole point, but it was close enough.

When Cole left the little corner to go back to the table, he walked. 

\------------

(1) _Rigoris mortali_ : made-up Tevene from Latin; rigor mortis, or bodies stiffened after death. Because why not? (Apologies to the Thedosian linguists; I am willing to take corrections, advice, and direction.)


	14. Two Tevinters Walk Into a Village...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Breach is closed, and the remaining untainted Templars are secured. Cue the Venatori, of course, and someone who's going to give Fenris a particular problem: Dorian Pavus. 
> 
> Oh, and Corypheus is there, too.
> 
> This chapter is SFW, mild trigger warning (panic attack)
> 
> There is more made-up and actual Tevene; references are at the end.
> 
> Song is "My Name Is Ruin" / Gary Numan / Corypheus

“Elf, you look like shit,” Varric informed me cheerfully, approaching with two mugs of beer. Luno strode up beside him and sat next to me with a tired huff, leaning on my calf.

I took one of the mugs and drank deeply, then grimaced before answering. I really didn't care for beer, but I needed the numbing. “Thank you, ser dwarf. Your kind and thoughtful words always inspire.” 

“I live to serve.” Varric drank from his own cup and sat down next to me on a little bench by the fire. Kegs had been tapped, and campfires dotted Haven. People were dancing and singing sacred Chants and bawdy tavern songs alike, and Varric and I simply sat side by side and watched for a moment, drinking. 

“You know,” Varric began, “we were planning this little shindig for a week from now, back when no one thought you were going to wake up for at least several days.” 

I looked at him in surprise. “Really? Why?” 

He shook his head, absently reaching down to pet Luno. “You fell out of the fade, that knocked you out for half a day. You closed the first rift, that was three days gone. This one… Shit. Who knew you'd pop right back up again?” 

“I see your point,” I muttered. I’d felt little more than wooziness and fatigue after the closing of the Breach, but Cullen’s assumption about the Templars’ strength and ability had been correct.

Still, when I paid attention to myself and how I felt, it was not great. “I am still exhausted,” I confessed after a moment.

“Well, saving the world does that to a person,” Varric remarked. “At least I’ve heard. Me, I wouldn’t know. I just wander around telling stories and leaving destruction in my wake.” 

I huffed out a soft laugh. “That you do.” My smile fell away again, and I stared down into my beer. “Hawke should be here with us -” 

“Don’t do that,” Varric chided. “Hawke… you know, if anyone could have gotten away from that, it would’ve been him. His slippery sixth sense would’ve kicked in. He’d be off lounging in some seedy tavern, flirting with a busty serving girl and waiting for… oh, I don’t know. Another caravan that would take him right here.” 

The thought made me smile in spite of myself. “He’d know exactly where to find us,” I murmured; it wasn’t really a question. 

“Of course he would,” Varric said with absolute certainty, and though we were idly fantasizing, I needed the lie. “He’d stroll right in the gate looking like he never had a care in the world, saying, ‘Where’s my ale and my dog? Don't kill anyone without me.’ Wouldn’t he?” Varric looked down at the mabari, his grin sliding away into sadness. 

Luno's bark was conversational but soft, his stumpy little tail wagging only a couple of times. I rubbed his ears.

As I did so, Varric caught sight of my hand and pointed at it. “How’s that doing?” he asked with a little distaste. The idea of it had, as he’d said, freaked him out from the beginning.

“It doesn’t hurt as much.” It wasn’t the gnawing, burning ache it had been, but I didn’t mention the creeping green sliding up my wrist. There was nothing Varric could have done about it but worry.

“Good. Wish it were gone, though.” Varric made an exaggerated shudder. “I’ve got a pretty good imagination, and even I can’t dream up how awful all that must feel.” He spun a finger to indicate my entire person.

I nodded, fell silent, and drank more. Distantly, I could hear Maryden, who was strumming on her lute and trying to come up with a word that rhymed with Templar.

That was when the lookouts’ bells began to ring frantically, their unexpected peals sending the camp into a frenzy. Varric and I exchanged looks, and I automatically reached for the sword that was not lying in its usual place by my left side. “ _Fasta vass_ ,” I hissed. No warrior worth his salt leaves his greatsword behind. Varric and I exchanged a look and parted ways to run for our weapons.

“Cullen?” Cassandra called, voice tense and expectant. She was approaching from the Chantry, waving civilians down to direct them toward it. Varric and I joined them near the gate.

While our commander laid out the details - a thick stream of torches flowing over the mountain toward Haven was the summary of it. The Tevinter-controlled mages were coming, and the trebuchets were our best chance. 

There came a flash of fire and the sound of a small explosion from under the barred gate. I detected sulfur and the bright, cutting scent of lyrium burning in my nostrils.

Narrowing my eyes, I approached it, my greatsword’s hilt gripped in both fists.

A voice I’d never heard before - and yet one that was hauntingly familiar, just the same - called, “If someone could open this, I’d appreciate it!”

“That’s a friendly,” Varric nodded at the gate. 

“Oh, really?” I shot him a look. “Is it the sarcasm, or are you reading minds, now?”

“Sarcasm now, mind-reading next week,” the dwarf said conversationally. Considering Varric’s sense of judgment, I nodded and gestured to a soldier to raise the bar. He did so, then tugged the gate open wide enough for a man. The newcomer was apparently injured or exhausted. He was on a knee, leaning heavily on his staff. 

Yet another mage, then. My feelings on the Maker were mixed, but praying did cross my mind at that moment.

“I’m here to warn you.” He gasped between words. The others poured through the gate, and Cullen caught the mage as he tried and failed to stand on his own. “Fashionably late, I’m afraid.” 

The cultured tone and the smoky voice were unmistakable. It sounded almost disembodied from its owner - yes, very familiar, and I went cold all over.

“My name is Dorian -”

My limbs turned liquid, and I felt the familiar prickle of adrenaline and heat under my skin as the lyrium began to awaken. I have no idea how I remained standing, and then, after a moment, I couldn’t any longer. I sank to one knee on the cold, wet ground, my sword falling into the muck beside me. I leaned an elbow onto the leg I still had cocked up, my own weight suddenly too much to bear. My breaths came faster, though I got no benefit from the air. Yes, he was Tevinter, but not only that: from a house that I _knew_. I shuddered with a sense that everything in my past was rushing back to me, and this time, my life was finally over. 

“Pavus,” I managed to grit out, but there was no strength behind the words, no anger, only fear and weakness. My heart pounded in my chest painfully. “He knew my master. He led them here.” I saw Varric’s expression and could not understand the puzzlement there. I closed my eyes, listening to my own breathing above the noise of the approaching mages, nearby fires, distant, frightened cries, and the crunch of snow under boots. My stomach felt hot and sick, and I focused on the icy wetness seeping into the knees of my leather breeches to distract myself from the urge to vomit.

 _Danarius._

“Elf, you know -” Varric began, but the mage cut him off. 

“No! They were already marching on Haven. I risked my life to get here first. This has nothing to do with my father; I swear to you.” 

_That voice, that voice, so familiar…_

Eyes still shut, breath still shuddering, I heard the clank of armor and a staff hitting the ground. 

I forced myself to open my eyes and raise them from the muddy snow beneath me. “I don’t - I don’t -” The mere sound of his voice made blood pound in my ears as though my heart was trying to drown him out. _I don’t believe you, treacherous Tevinter snake,_ I wanted to spit, but the words wouldn’t come. The sight of him was familiar, too: in the eyes, in the jawline, and I had to look away again.

Dorian - the name echoed from my memory. His father, Halward, had been one of the mages Danarius often invited to the mansion. Danarius had frequently… shared with him. I made hard, tight fists, knuckles white. Silver flame pulsed riotously around me - ah, this pain was familiar, almost comforting for the power it brought, as the heat moved through my skin. The energy was wholly different from that of the mark, and I could feel it adding to my lyrium as it had done before.

“I will kill you where you stand -” I got out, though I myself could not get to my feet. My stomach churned with nausea, and my chest felt full of heavy, cold iron, and yet my lungs still worked hard.

Varric put his hand on my forearm; not even the familiar pain of touch broke through my terror. When I ignored him, he tugged insistently. I finally made eye contact, feeling as though the world were slipping sideways. 

_”Take him, Halward.” A flick of a bejeweled hand. “You know what he likes. And doesn’t.” Dark, sly chuckles._ I struggled to keep from being pulled back there.

“Elf.” Varric kept his gaze level with mine, but did not chase me when I looked away. “Fenris. Breathe.”

“I can’t,” I choked out, shaking. 

Varric rested his hand on my shoulder and made a motion - to Cassandra, perhaps, or Cullen. I could no more look at them than at the son of Halward Pavus. I kept my eyes on the ground, unseeing, my chest working ceaselessly of its own accord, and began to register that my vision was graying at the edges.

“Stay with me.” Varric squeezed my shoulder. I could hear motion - more shifting of armor and weaponry, people moving steadily away, the bells still clanging their alarm. “You know, my brother used to go through this back when he first came topside. Thought the sky was going to swallow him. I’m pretty sure I’ve told you this story, though...” 

His voice droned on - comforting, familiar. I opened my eyes to see him taking up my sword. It was heavy and too long for him, so he gripped the hilt and let the blade drag in the snow. He got me to my feet somehow and led me toward my little shack, talking all the while about his brother and his incessant fear that the very heavens would pull him right up into them, and then moving on seamlessly into how, even if the Tevinter had come for me and me alone, no one in all of Haven would let him have me. 

That was where his words stayed for a while: how Cassandra would shield-bash him for the very notion, how Leliana would take out his kidneys and probably feed them to the ravens, how Josephine would protocol him to death. We had made it to my cot, and it was as though I was finally coming back to myself to hear him say, “...imagine if Cullen even thought for a second that we’d let in a Tevinter mage who intended to steal the Herald? Shit, he’d take it as a personal slight and vow to stand eternal guard over you. Don’t let him take it as a personal slight; I’m pretty sure you don’t want that.” 

By degrees, I realized that my breathing had slowed. My chest still ached, and nausea remained, but it was a step toward relief, nevertheless. The dwarf watched me, a kind of tense energy about him - and then I remembered the thick swathe of mages coming over the mountainside. 

“I know you needed time,” he said, “and we do need to move but… you know Danarius is dead, right? Hawke smashed his head in. Paid extra to get the brains cleaned off the floor and all that.”

“I know,” I said, voice shaky. “But Pavus…” I shook my head. Whatever thought I’d had that this was Danarius’ doing was forgotten now. Still, the coincidence was uncanny, and I could not get my head around it. “It doesn’t matter. But I know that mage. His father…“ I couldn’t finish. It was too much to talk about and my emotions felt scraped raw.

“Okay, Fenris. Just breathe.” Varric watched me a moment longer, then leaned my greatsword against the bed to my left. He patted it apologetically. “Bianca wants to smack me for how I just had to handle your girl, here. I’m too short for shit like this.”

That dragged a surprised chuckle out of me. “It’s a boy,” I corrected Varric just to be contrary, and that made him laugh. 

“Of course it is.” He patted my shoulder and then went to the window. The riotous bells had stopped, and that was not a good sign.

“Fenris,” he began, but I was already nodding as he said, “If it’s at all possible for you to put that mage out of your head for a minute or two, we have an army of other ones heading down the path. You know Cullen probably has a plan involving a distraction and hurling big rocks, but my plan is much simpler: kick some Tevinter ass. You with me?” 

In that moment, I was more grateful for that mouthy dwarf than I had ever been. “Yes,” I said, pulling in a breath. I took up my greatsword and, letting myself focus on the tumult outside the gates, primed my lyrium marks. 

“Atta boy,” Varric said with a little smirk, taking Bianca from her resting place on his back and cocking her. “Let’s do this.” He opened the cottage door.

~ ~ ~ ~

The Elder One. Corypheus. 

He had no need to introduce himself to me; in days past, he was as vivid a feature in Hawke's nightmares as Danarius had always been in my own. I had seen him dead - we all had. Hawke, Varric, Bethany, myself, we had stood over the corpse of the erstwhile magister and checked to see that he stayed that way. I had believed the Grey Wardens had then entombed him in the very tower of his imprisonment. Apparently, they had not, or he had been powerful enough to escape.

The implications drove a shudder through me. The fact that darkspawn of high intelligence and power could be possessed by Old Gods was quite one thing, and the fact that this one kept an Archdemon as his pet was another entirely. It made my head whirl. 

It didn’t matter; Cullen’s plan had the others scrambling through the tunnels toward the back of the mountain, and they needed time. “Whatever you are,” I growled, squaring my shoulders, “I am not afraid of you.” 

The great thing scoffed, then looked at me with what appeared to be curiosity. “Ah. I remember you, Elf. What a ludicrous ‘Herald of Andraste’ you make, with your Tevinter markings. You believe those bring you exaltation, I suppose, _soporati_ that you are. But they do not: they show you to be a fraudulent nothing, as does that scar upon your palm.”

“What are you talking about?” I snarled to hide my confusion.

“It matters not. You toy with forces beyond your ken. No more: I will have that mark from you. If I must tear it out through the _marchi incaensor_ (2) you wear, so be it.” 

He held a strangely-marked orb of ebon green that glowed and sparked with light much like red lyrium. With his other hand, he reached for me, sparks flowing from his clawed fingers. The pull was undeniable and excruciating. I fought him with everything in me, but it was as though the mark responded to his call. My blood was on fire, and the more he tugged with his magic, the more I knew it: he was killing me. Every moment the light filled my hand brought me closer to death, but this - 

Suddenly he was on me, hoisting me into the air. His talk of empty thrones and impotent confusion had lost itself in the agonizing sharpness in my hand and skin. I cried out when he flung me aside, and I saw white flashes behind my eyes as my body slammed against the trebuchet.

“The Anchor is permanent,” he raged. “You have spoilt it with your fumbling.” 

I struggled to my feet, grabbing a stray longsword. It felt cheap and unbalanced in my hand, far too small. This Corypheus had cheated death once, and he claimed to have seen the seat of the Maker - but he’d said _gods_. That and the physical toll of the fighting, the lyrium, the Anchor, he’d called it - all combined to leave me dazed, in shock, and in fear, not only for my own life, but all of Thedas. For a moment, I could not move. No rational thought would come to me as I stood there quaking with Harritt’s flimsy sword (pre-Cullen, I thought a little crazily) in my good fist, and then I realized this would be where the Inquisition died: all Corypheus had to do was command his archdemon to snap me up or step on me and there would be my inglorious end.

Hawke came unbidden to my mind, and suddenly we were on the roof of my mansion. He’d been showing me the constellations that he knew, and then he’d pointed: “Look there, Fenris.” My own sense of misplaced romance had captured me as Hawke pointed out a falling star - and yet I found myself obeying in the present. 

With an almost hypnotic slowness, I turned my head and saw the bright red flare arch up against the night. 

“I will not suffer even an unknowing rival,” Corypheus continued on. “You must die.” 

I finally found my voice, drawing bravado around me like a mantle. “Your arrogance blinds you. Good to know.” I turned to meet his horrific glare, and we stared each other down as he advanced on me. Now that the others were out, I had nothing to lose, and I was taking this monstrosity with me if I could. 

“If I’m dying, so be it,” I told him, straightening and tilting my head up. “But not today. _Na via lerno victoria._ (2)” I kicked the trebuchet’s handle and sent the boulder slinging. The pain in my skin and blood was fading, or I was used to it; I didn’t care which. I managed to scramble away, get to my feet and then run, and as the crushing weight of the avalanche struck Haven, I fell through to an escape tunnel below. 

_____________

(2) marchi incaensor: marchi: Latin-ish for “mark;” [incaensor](https://dragonage.fandom.com/wiki/Tevene#cite_note-11) for (paraphrased) something that is dangerous unless leashed

(3) a href="https://dragonage.fandom.com/wiki/Tevene#cite_note-16">Na via lerno victoria: “Only the living know victory.”


	15. We’re Not Talking About That, I Mean It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and the citizens of Haven made it away; cue Fenris slogging through the mountains, meanwhile discovering that he has gained a sinister new ability through the so-called Anchor. Solas and Fenris exchange words and revelations are made. They aren't necessarily pretty.
> 
> This chapter SFW; song is the 7th Symphony, 2nd Movt. / Beethoven, cond. by Leopold Stokowski / leaving Haven

I woke flat on my back, unsure how much time had passed. I was freezing, stiff, and very sore. My lyrium burned, and I groaned as I rolled to my side to get to my feet. As I pushed up, the Anchor screamed in protest. 

Nevertheless, I had no time to wonder what he’d done to me with his orb - if I didn’t find the others, or a passable shelter, I’d freeze to death. 

I was under the mountain, by my best guess, just behind the Chantry’s cellars. Corypheus’ dragon had done a good deal of damage before I’d buried everything, but I vaguely recollected the halls in the basement. They apparently led down into a corridor of sorts that might have contained ossuaries in a time before. I had heard plenty of stories about Haven during and before the fifth Blight, and I didn’t want to think of what might find me in these catacombs. A wrong turn might lead me straight back up to the Temple - in the exact wrong direction. 

To my relief, there seemed to be no turns, as this simply appeared to be a tunnel that led away from the Chantry. It was icy cold but sheltered from the wind, which I could hear howling against a distant opening. There was light, faint and far ahead. 

As I made my way forward, I heard a dreaded and familiar sound: the deep hum of a rift, the faint growls of demons behind it. My only consolation was the glow of warmth as I primed the marks and continued on. I had dropped the cheap sword in my escape and was otherwise unarmed - unless a demon had a heart I could rip out. Wonderful.

They were spawning even as I approached. I had seen these: creatures of despair that shot snow-cold beams before them. _What I wouldn’t give for a good rage demon right now,_ I thought, and with a pang, I imagined Hawke laughing beside me. 

In the cold of this underground lair, I looked about me for something I could use as a weapon. There was nothing, so I squared my shoulders and opened my palm. Perhaps I could disrupt the rift enough to kill them. I doubted it, but it was my only chance. 

The fell green glow made me blink, and a demon’s shriek was followed by a sharp, icy bolt to my shoulder. They were going to tear me apart, all four of them, and I reached for the rift, feeling the tug all through me. Then something happened. 

I was right - or Corypheus’ orb had indeed done more to me than either of us had realized. His pulling at the Anchor had opened something, activated or aggravated it in a way that enabled me to all but dissolve the demons where they stood. Their essences flowed into the rift, and I managed to close it, but the act left me breathless and exhausted. I would not be doing that again soon.

I staggered, then rested my palms on my knees. I had no coat, no furs, and no weapon, but I could not keep the blizzard waiting any longer. I moved forward. I would reach the others or indeed die trying, but I could not stay here.

The mouth of the tunnel brought a wind so cold that my breath caught. There was no stopping, though. If Corypheus returned… well, I’d rather have had an ignominious death-by-freezing than to go by his hand. 

I threw myself out into the wind, arms clutched around me. I kept my lyrium as hot as I could while I trudged through the shin- and then knee-deep snow, though the markings didn’t afford as much warmth as I needed. Movement and the hope for sunrise were all I had. 

I walked for a good hour, possibly more, before I saw a sign that I was on the right path: a wagon, broken and left for lost, had been set afire in a desperate attempt to stay warm. Its last embers died as I approached, but the people formerly of Haven were not far off. I had to keep moving. 

The gray glow of the moon on snow made specters of the rocks and trees. The wind shifted the evergreens and the snow obscured stone until it appeared as though everything was flowing around me. There were no footprints to follow, no wagon tracks, only the distant gap in the mountains that had framed that lonely flare.

By the time I found the remains of the campfire, its stewpot long since emptied and abandoned, I knew I would not make it much longer. I could not feel my feet inside my boots, and my arms had gone numb nearly to the elbow. I no longer had the strength to keep the lyrium alight, but I sparked it from time to time to let the pain remind me that I was alive. I had heard that when the sensation of warmth crept into a freezing body, that was the end, so I clung to the cold out of sheer stubbornness. 

And then, over a small rise, I saw the blessed red glow of fire. The wind whisked away any voices, but as my limbs finally gave way I saw Cassandra and Cullen rushing to me. 

I was being borne up out of the snow, and then Cassandra’s voice was very near my ear. “Thank the Maker you’re alive -”

~ ~ ~ ~

Singing followed. We will not speak of it.

~ ~ ~ ~

“A word?” 

The request vexed me; I was already dreading the inevitable admonition that I should somehow stop them from showing me such reverence. I shouldn’t have had to explain to him that this was the last thing I wanted; it wasn’t as though I’d asked them to burst into hymns in my name. Truly, it bothered me that none of them could, or would, read the horror on my face.

I had no idea what was happening anymore. I rather wished I had been dreaming.

“Do I have a choice?” I shot back irritably.

“No.” Solas walked away.

Sighing, I followed. 

To my surprise, it wasn’t a lecture on the dangers of allowing the Inquisition to place me on a pedestal. He briefly explained something that I already knew: humans singing an elf’s praises were almost unheard of. Of course, he brought out that phrase that Merrill had favored: “our people.” I’d never counted myself among them, as I neither had a clan nor an alienage - but neither had he. I found it annoying that he only seemed to claim them as “his” when it suited him to. The rest of the time, they seemed to bore or exasperate him. 

Then again, he was a self-taught apostate. Arrogance was his domain.

As if to punctuate my annoyance, he waved his hand and struck veilfire alight. The showoff.

“When they find out the orb is ours,” he was saying, unaware that I’d drifted away for a moment, “there will be retribution. Do not believe for a moment that the Inquisition can protect you from righteous Andrastian ire - even if you were to take up ‘the Herald of Andraste’ like a mantle. Perhaps especially so.”

“What are you suggesting I do? Cower behind Leliana because a couple of thousand years ago, _your_ people invented an orb capable -” 

“Seven thousand years,” he corrected me.

I scowled at him. “Spare me your pedantry. I’ve survived horrors you can’t even imagine; only one of them happened yesterday. I’m not afraid of a Chantry zealot with a grudge.”

Solas appeared to consider a moment, then his brows dug that furrow between them. “Very well,” he said coolly. “The important matter at hand is the orb itself.”

That strange, swirling orb. I had so many damned questions about it that I was a little disgusted with myself. Magical artifacts had no bearing on my life - except that now, they actually did.

Solas continued, “Corypheus used the orb to open the Breach. Unlocking it must have caused the explosion that destroyed the Conclave.” 

There was so much in those words that I had to stop him. “How do you know this?” I demanded, then lowered my voice, glancing toward camp. “And why tear the Veil wide open? What could he possibly gain?” 

Solas’s irritation began to seep through his composure, and I had to admit, it was gratifying to see. “How am I to know? But there is much to be gained from chaos, is there not? Especially if one were removed enough to simply follow in its wake.” He abruptly got a peculiar look on his face that I’d come to recognize: he was assessing me. “You know something.”

I explained as quickly as I could, keeping my voice down. I told him of the Wardens’ prison, that strange Larius, the other Wardens who had been in Corypheus’s thrall. I told him of the fact that we’d _killed_ a powerful darkspawn who’d claimed to be one of the original magisters who had stormed the Golden City. We had seen him dead. And yet, here we were, and everything Corypheus had told me in Haven rang familiar. He had been inside the Fade and wanted to return to it.

As I spoke, Solas began to show true worry. After a long pause, he murmured, “If he truly is a magister of old, who knows what power he may wield?”

I stared into the arcane flame he’d created, and as I spoke, I could not keep the sarcastic edge from my words. “Why, I thought you would. You certainly seem to know a great deal about it all.”

“Tevinter is not my area of expertise,” Solas said in a clipped tone, and thus the discussion was closed. I would have to find someone else to ask about that _marchi incaensor_ that Corypheus had mentioned.

Someone who wasn’t Dorian Pavus.


	16. Random Castle in the Mountains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trek through the mountains yields fruit: Skyhold. Galvora makes her presence known. Fenris gets a title that's better - or worse - than "Herald." 
> 
> This chapter is SFW.
> 
> The song for this one is "Warriors" by Imagine Dragons, for the Inquisition.
> 
> I have to give a shoutout to my beta, [CuriousThimble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CuriousThimble/pseuds/CuriousThimble). She has been super encouraging and helpful even while in the middle of her own fic, [The Wrong Warden](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17082974). I love having her in my back pocket (and being in hers).

Little though I liked him, Solas did have a few pieces of information that I found useful, and he could spin a good tale. I liked the one about the Qunari baker and her pinch of sugar. It was like having a sulky, pompous, unfunny Varric along.

When he advised me to scout to the north, though, I tilted my head. “What’s to the north?” 

That furrow, almost always present when he and I spoke, deepened. “The sea is north. It will be more temperate, will it not?” 

“You’re worried about the weather. Now.”

“Scowling, he turned away. “I have heard that there is a fortress to the north. A place where the Inquisition can build and grow.” 

“Where in the world did you hear that?” I demanded. “Or is it another of your spirit legends?”

“It is not a legend.” He dug his staff into the snow as he walked, and his movements were becoming agitated. “Spirits do not spin tall tales.” 

“Unlike - who? Elves?” At his sharp look, I turned my face to the road ahead. “If it’s true, then you could have said that days ago; people need to believe we’re not just meandering.” 

“What would have been the point of -” He sighed heavily and simply stopped talking, glaring at the ground before him.

I huffed out a sarcastic, unsurprised laugh. “Fine. North.” Sometimes I thought that exchanges like this, all spite and irritation, reminded me of Anders, and then it was fine that I did not feel like talking anymore.

At nightfall, Varric always settled next to me before the fire. His company was more welcome than anyone else’s; he was a friend and a comfort, and so was his perpetual mug of beer. 

“I wish I could remember,” I said for possibly the dozenth time, thinking of the Conclave. “I _should_ remember.” 

“Stop it,” Varric admonished. “It was the definition of trauma, and those other things probably added to it.” He gestured toward my lyrium. “That’s already given you grief in the past, and this new, green thing just made it worse. This isn’t like misplacing the key to your mansion for the third time. It’s magic and Old Gods and… shit.” He drank his beer down in huge swallows.

I nodded. Old Gods and Shit. It sounded like a chapter from one of his books, and it was completely apropos.

I spotted Galvora wandering about our campsite, looking… lonely? I hopped to my feet. “Galvora,” I called, waving her over to us. 

She smiled when she saw me, but as she neared, the smile fell away and became something more like adoration. She had spotted Varric.

“Varric, this is the innkeeper I told you ab -”

“Galvora Harsten,” she cut in, voice softer than I’d ever heard it. That said, she wasn’t shouting over a tavern’s chatter or telling angry tales of her awful siblings. “Very pleased to meet you.” She extended her hand. 

He clasped her wrist, smiling. “Same here. I want to say something conceited, like ‘always nice to meet a fan,’ but I’m not the one who brought you here.” 

“Still a fan,” she grinned, blue eyes twinkling. “May I?” 

“Please.” Varric stood and gestured to the bit of hewn log he’d been sitting on and, recognizing a gentleman’s gesture, she took his spot. He sat beside me on a bit of canvas on the ground.

Her eyes seldom left him after that. He smiled as she gushed for a moment about _Hard in Hightown_. He promised that he’d let her look at a draft for a prequel whenever we got where we were going, and then she seemed to remember me and turned to look at me. 

“Where _are_ we going?” she asked.

“North,” I told them, stretching my bare feet toward the fire. “There’s a fortress there, apparently. Varric, you can spread the word. People are beginning to grumble that we’re wandering aimlessly, and they’re worried about the state of the supplies.” 

“A fortress isn’t going to help much with the supplies,” he muttered, “but it’ll be good to stop trudging through the snow.” 

“Yes. I’m very much tired of boots.” I took a drink and looked at our new friend. “What are your plans, Galvora? What would you like to do within the Inquisition?”

Galvora grinned hugely. “I want to fight.” 

I raised my eyebrows, remembering her brandishing a broom and a dagger when Imbert began to act up; I had no doubt she could hold her own when given actual weaponry. “What would you fight with?” 

“Blunt instrument. I have a heavy iron pot with a handle -” At Varric’s chuckle, she blinked and glared as hard as she could (which wasn’t very, since he _was_ Varric Tethras). “I’ve defended myself plenty of times with that pot.” 

“What about a good mace and a shield?” I offered. 

She raised a hand to stop me. “Double wield,” she corrected me. “I’m hobbled with a shield.”

Clearly she understood her own fighting technique, and I resolved to ask her about that later. “Very well. Two maces?”

Satisfied, she nodded, then glanced over at Varric. “What’re you writing?” 

“... iron… pot,” he murmured as he scribbled, then tucked his little book away. “That’s too good. You can’t make that up.”

“Did you just put me into one of your stories?” Galvora asked, looking fascinated and thrilled.

“Maybe. I have to see how it goes and where you fit in.” 

Now she looked positively smug. “Wait’ll I tell you about how I left Orzammar.” 

Varric looked at her appraisingly. “Betrayal for political gain?” 

“Yup.” 

He pulled his notebook back out again.

~ ~ ~ ~

Skyhold was indeed a marvel. I was amazed by its garden, still bearing a few wild elfroot and some hardy embrium that had been reseeding themselves since who knew how long ago. The fortress was a sprawling maze of battlement corridors leading to interior buildings and towers, but not even the breadth of the place could prepare me for the surprise of Cassandra’s proposition.

“The Inquisition needs a leader,” she was saying, leading me up the steps to the main hall. “One who has already been leading us: you.” 

I stared at her for a moment, then turned to look at the other advisors. They were clearly in agreement, and while part of me felt mildly vindicated - they were making it formal at last - another part was horrified. When I looked out into the faces of the people, watching expectantly, I could see that everyone’s minds had been made up, and the horror grew. 

I lowered my voice. “Are you insane? They want some… savior, someone with divine power - not a… a broken elf who landed here by accident.” 

“They want you,” she insisted. “Because of what you’ve done. What you inspire.”

I studied the sword Leliana held in offering. It was glossy and ornately carved with the head of a dragon. A symbol, just as I was. 

Cassandra went on, “Without you, there would be no Inquisition. Where you lead us, what kind of leader you are… that is up to you.” 

I felt a surge of panic welling in my chest, and I looked from the sword to the crowd of followers. My followers. Dared I tell them they were all delusional, or at the very least, ignorant? Idiots following a man who’d never had a path of his own?

No. When I saw the hope in their eyes, I could see they had something I’d never shared before: purpose. They believed in me in a way I never could have believed in myself. 

I took the sword, keenly wishing for Hawke’s strength. “I am not doing this alone,” I breathed by way of a useless threat, eyes boring into my advisors’ in turn. “I expect assistance and counsel. You have no idea what you’re asking for here.” But their placid, even pleased, expressions told me that this was, somehow, what they wanted. 

Andraste preserve them.

After what seemed an eternity of thoughts swirling, settling, and taking flight again, I said loudly, “Corypheus will never let me live in peace - nor any of us. Whatever happens, he must be defeated. I will not allow a Tevinter magister to ravage Thedas.” 

The crowd erupted into cheers, and suddenly Cullen was rousing them with inspirational words. I held the sword aloft as I assumed they wanted me to do, and the cheering quickened. 

Maker. These people had no idea what they were doing, and neither did I.

~ ~ ~ ~

We entered the main hall together, my four advisors and I, and then I saw the wreckage inside. It was going to take a good deal of work to get this place ready for even our own people - and Josephine was already talking about guests. I had no idea why nobles would want to slog through the mountains to visit us, but the Inquisition was apparently a destination despite the inherent danger. The fact that she was already hinting at food choices and decor did not bode well. The last thing we needed was for Skyhold to become a _social_ destination.

“So this is where it begins,” Cullen said, looking around the dusty, barely-sunlit hall. 

“Oh, are we just now starting?” I quipped. “What was all of that - practice?” 

He turned to me. “You might say that, actually. We have a defensible hold now. Corypheus does not yet realize that by attacking, he put us at an advantage for once.”

“But what do we do?” Josephine asked, worry in her voice as she looked over at me. “We know nothing about this Corypheus, except that he wanted your mark.” 

For once, I did know. “I have fought him before,” I told them, and even Leliana’s eyes widened. “I explained it to Solas, but you should know what he is. The Grey Wardens had him contained in a fortress in the Vimmark Mountains, and he began to speak to them - to shape their thoughts, you could say, through the darkspawn taint. He is - or he claims to be - a magister of old. One of the magisters who entered the Fade and defiled the Golden City.” 

The shock grew on their faces, and Cassandra shook her head slowly, dumbfounded. “When you said you had fought him -” 

“You let him live?” Cullen demanded quietly.

“No,” I said firmly, looking at him. “First, we had to release him - he was whispering to the Grey Wardens and dwarves alike, and they intended to kill Hawke and take his blood to open the prison -”

Cullen interrupted again. “You _released_ him? What did Hawke’s blood have to do with -” 

“Stop and let me speak,” I growled, rubbing my forehead. “Hawke’s father, Malcolm, assisted them with performing a ritual. They threatened him - his family - so he performed blood magic to seal Corypheus into the fortress. The only way to open it was through blood - Hawke’s blood. We released Corypheus, and then we killed him. He was dead, I swear it. Varric would swear it.” _Hawke would, too._

“This is impossible.” Cassandra looked away, clearly frightened. “What hope have we?” 

“There has to be a way,” I said firmly. “He may be a magister of old, and he may be a powerful darkspawn, but while he aspires to be a god, he is not one. We have thwarted him twice now - by taking the anchor from him, and by taking his Templars. We will continue to do so until we have found a way to defeat him.” 

They considered my words, and there seemed to be a collective sigh between them as they agreed. We had to continue to fight, and we needed more allies, more power. 

I keenly missed Hawke in that moment.

~ ~ ~ ~

We set to work repairing and cleaning Skyhold. Broken lumber had to be pulled out and sorted; we needed building materials and, more importantly, supplies for day-to-day living. We had troops to outfit, people to feed. The ramparts, the towers, the walls were all solid, but where there had been barracks lay the remains of dry-rotted pallets and the old bones of abandoned furnishings. Where there had been a chantry, the pews were brittle and almost ancient. The kitchens were nightmarish.

Still, water passed under its foundations, and it was surprisingly temperate. Cold, but sunny, as we were high enough that clouds often formed beneath us.

As we settled into our routines and our spaces, I learned the way of the place. Leliana had, for some reason, replaced Flissa with a man named Cabot. He was surly, and to say he was sarcastic was similar to suggesting that a dragon was a type of lizard. I liked him. Flissa had become either a chantry lay sister or a prostitute, though to hear Leliana tell it, the two were often one and the same.

Sera didn’t like this Corypheus development a bit. Her scowl, when I went to check on her in her little corner upstairs of the tavern, was legendary. She seemed to be vaguely Andrastian, and the idea that the myths contained actual reality disturbed her. 

“Seat needs a butt - so Maker. Maker needs a wife - so Andraste. Darkspawns need a beginning - so Coryphanus. How the fuck d’you reckon you defeat an original magister? Magister with a capital ‘M!’ Maker, what’d I step in?”

“We’ll find a way,” I promised her firmly. 

“You better,” she snarled. “You and your battle-furniture talks, you make this arseface dead so I can stick an arrow in his darkspawn capital-’M’ dick and end all this you-as-Herald shite.”

“That’s good,” I told her, and she looked at me in surprise. “Hold onto that anger - we need it. It’s better than fear.”

“Oh, there’s fear,” she assured me with a sarcastic laugh, voice quaking a little as if to prove her point. “It’s just the pissed-off kind.”

The Iron Bull was just making his way into the tavern as I descended the steps. He had to bend a little and tilt his head to get his horns safely in, which amused me somewhat.

“Bull,” I greeted. “Everything going all right?” 

“Yeah,” he rumbled. “Just got the training dummies set up, and a few of the Chargers have taken over a lower level of one of the towers for billeting. We need rations and weapons next.” 

“Leliana’s working on that.” I turned and watched him move right past me to take a spot against the back wall, and I nodded to myself and followed him. He looked grim. 

“Something on your mind?” I asked, dragging a chair up across from him without waiting for an invitation. 

He looked around the little makeshift tavern. “Oh, nothing - except the darkspawn magister who likes trying to end the world - and I’m not even talking about this week.”

_Word travels too fast around here._

I nodded my head, rubbing the back of my neck with my good hand. “He… is a concern,” I deadpanned. 

That brought out a flat chuckle. “The only good thing about him is that he's got a dragon I will enjoy gutting.” 

“There is that,” I grinned. “How are the others holding up under the news?” 

“I’ve never seen Krem so pissed off. He’s talking about going down the mountain to the villages and recruiting,” Bull answered. “And Rocky’s working on a new explosive. That may or may not be good.”

“So… productive?” 

Bull nodded. “Yeah. The Chargers don’t like to sit on their hands. Busy and fired up is best.” 

Busy and fired up. I felt as though I needed a project, too; something to drive me that wasn’t just rebuilding. 

And then I remembered what Corypheus had called me.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [laugan's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laugan/pseuds/laugan) cover art for her fic, which is [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15934976/chapters/37156739). I saw that image, saw that story idea, and had to run with it. Previous to that, I hadn't written anything of substance since... well, it's been years.
> 
> Each chapter will have a corresponding song. This is because I felt it would work with that character or the theme of the chapter. It's not necessary to know the song to get the fic, I just thought I'd build a playlist.
> 
> Final beta by [CuriousThimble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CuriousThimble/pseuds/CuriousThimble). Additional beta work by [Mistress Lavellan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mistress_Lavellan), [pinksundays](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinksundays/pseuds/pinksundays), [Reinamarieseregon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reinamarieseregon/works), and others to be credited later. The list is long because I was *very* insecure about this when starting. My apologies to the betas; it’s been a confusing journey to the first postable draft.
> 
> Certain later elements inspired by [iduna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iduna/pseuds/iduna)’s work, [Looking Into the Abyss](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18089999).
> 
> Apologies: Anti-Solas, Anti-Anders sentiments (it is Fenris, after all). These characters are not my own - Bioware, and alas, EA, own everything. If I have used anything by anyone, I have either given credit or, in the case of fan works, both asked permission and given credit. I’m not making money off any of this.
> 
> Comments and kudos are welcome, adored, and fed chocolate.


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